74 Friendship poems

I did not live until this time Crowned my felicity, When I could say without a crime, I am not thine, but thee. This carcass breathed, and walked, and slept, So that the world believed There was a soul the motions kept; But they were all deceived. For as a watch by art is wound To motion, such was mine: But never had Orinda found A soul till she found thine; Which now inspires, cures and supplies, And guides my darkened breast: For thou art all that I can prize, My joy, my life, my rest. No bridegroom’s nor crown-conqueror’s mirth To mine compared can be: They have but pieces of the earth, I’ve all the world in thee. Then let our flames still light and shine, And no false fear control, As innocent as our design, Immortal as our soul.

Less lonely, less . . . I gave you a tiny box. You lifted the lid, praised the usefulness of my gift: a silver pin shaped like an amper- sand. As you fastened it to your lapel, I thought again of that motel outside of Chicago. ¿Te acuerdas? I sat on the edge of a bench, untied my shoes. Face down, eyes shut, you breathed in the aroma of sweat & allspice coming off the sheets. I tossed my ring—gold, inscribed—toward a pile of clothes. But the ring dropped in the small of your back where it rattled & rattled like a coin in a beggar’s cup.

Sheila, we speak here on the fly Leaf of a book which was myself A good few graves ago. Now I am maintained by other Words for better or for worse To whisper my hello. The seasons turn. Threshold on thresh Hold forms continually and falls Under grief’s lonely hammer. What did you say? I thought between These fly leaf words I heard you speak Out of your Second Summer. The summer chimes and turns its blue Dragon-flying eyes to see We two are not afraid. Hello, Sheila, I can hear Your breath on the other side of the word And see you turn your head.

The Turn Brave infant of Saguntum, clear Thy coming forth in that great year, When the prodigious Hannibal did crown His rage with razing your immortal town. Thou, looking then about, Ere thou wert half got out, Wise child, didst hastily return, And mad’st thy mother’s womb thine urn. How summed a circle didst thou leave mankind Of deepest lore, could we the center find! The Counterturn Did wiser Nature draw thee back From out the horror of that sack, Where shame, faith, honor, and regard of right Lay trampled on; the deeds of death and night Urged, hurried forth, and hurled Upon th’ affrighted world; Sword, fire, and famine, with fell fury met, And all on utmost ruin set, As, could they but life’s miseries foresee, No doubt all infants would return like thee? The Stand For what is life, if measured by the space, Not by the act? Or maskèd man, if valued by his face Above his fact? Here’s one outlived his peers And told forth fourscore years; He vexèd time and busied the whole state, Troubled both foes and friends; But ever to no ends: What did this stirrer but die late? How well at twenty had he fall’n or stood! For three of his fourscore he did no good. The Turn He entered well, by virtuous parts, Got up and thrived with honest arts; He purchased friends, and fame, and honors then, And had his noble name advanced with men; But weary of that flight He stooped in all men’s sight To sordid flatteries, acts of strife, And sunk in that dead sea of life So deep, as he did then death’s waters sup, But that the cork of title buoyed him up. The Counterturn Alas, but Morison fell young; He never fell, thou fall’st, my tongue. He stood, a soldier to the last right end, A perfect patriot, and a noble friend, But most a virtuous son. All offices were done By him so ample, full, and round, In weight, in measure, number, sound, As, though his age imperfect might appear, His life was of humanity the sphere. The Stand Go now, and tell out days summed up with fears, And make them years; Produce thy mass of miseries on the stage To swell thin age; Repeat of things a throng, To show thou hast been long, Not lived; for life doth her great actions spell By what was done and wrought In season, and so brought To light: her measures are, how well Each syllabe answered, and was formed how fair; These make the lines of life, and that’s her air. The Turn It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May; Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be. The Counterturn Call, noble Lucius, then for wine, And let thy looks with gladness shine; Accept this garland, plant it on thy head, And think, nay know, thy Morison’s not dead. He leaped the present age, Possessed with holy rage To see that bright eternal day; Of which we priests and poets say Such truths as we expect for happy men, And there he lives with memory, and Ben The Stand Jonson! who sung thus of him, ere he went Himself to rest, Or taste a part of that full joy he meant To have expressed In this bright asterism; Where it were friendship’s schism (Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry) To separate these twi- Lights, the Dioscuri, And keep the one half from his Harry. But fate doth so alternate the design, Whilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine. The Turn And shine as you exalted are, Two names of friendship, but one star: Of hearts the union. And those not by chance Made, or indenture, or leased out t’advance The profits for a time. No pleasures vain did chime Of rimes, or riots, at your feasts, Orgies of drink, or feigned protests, But simple love of greatness and of good; That knits brave minds and manners more than blood. The Counterturn This made you first to know the why You liked, then after to apply That liking, and approach so one the tother, Till either grew a portion of the other: Each styled by his end The copy of his friend. You lived to be the great surnames And titles by which all made claims Unto the virtue. Nothing perfect done, But as a Cary, or a Morison. The Stand And such a force the fair example had, As they that saw The good, and durst not practice it, were glad That such a law Was left yet to mankind; Where they might read and find Friendship, indeed, was written, not in words; And with the heart, not pen, Of two so early men, Whose lines her rolls were, and recòrds, Who, ere the first down bloomèd on the chin, Had sowed these fruits, and got the harvest in.

After Tim Dlugos' Things I Might Do I probably didn't tell you that the last Line of your poem left me on a plane of Movement somewhere between the best of pop Culture and the longest break in your favorite pop song I probably didn't tell you that the train is going to take Way longer than you think and you were probably annoyed I probably broke the moon in pieces with my night vision Straining too hard to remember what I probably dropped in your inbox I probably should've said what I meant. You probably knew how my life didn't fix into That theory box on your shelf, so I probably Ignored you when you said hi to me near Mercer St I probably left off the most important thing But you probably didn't want to hear it I probably tried to be a good New Yorker and Work hard and play hard but it didn't work Out that way, I probably just reverted back to The Rust Belt mode—work hard, have it not mean Enough to play hard or play at all. It's probably too hard to make A dent for yourself in the Rust Belt. It's all probably said and done Your neighbor knows what you did tomorrow and what was Going on yesterday. Probably good too so you don't get in trouble With the other neighbor. But they probably don't know that you could Be in NY for a few hours and have something good and so life changing happen To you it was probably a 360 for you and probably took You years to come down to 180, probably, right?

“I'm so—” I start to apologize, but Albert laughs. “It's not my birthday,” he says. I'm confused. “It's for you, Bindi.” “Me?” I say. “It's not my birthday, either.” Albert leads me to the chair. He hands me the present. I open it. It's one of those plastic trophy things. It says: “World's Best Sister.” I get all choked up. “I'm really proud of you,” says Albert. “You are?” “Totally. You came through a really rough time, Bindi.” “Not always with flying colors,” I say. “True, but you never gave up.” “I thought I did, sometimes. And you went to all this trouble?” Albert shrugs. “It's what brothers do.” Albert's grandmother pops her head in. I look up. Megan and Kyra are in the doorway, smiling. Mrs. Poole leads us all over to the table. The message on the cake reads: “Bravo to Our Bindi!” “Wow!” says Kyra. Megan turns to Albert. “Need another sister?”

(for Vanessa) Melissa and I were sitting by the little lake in Green Park in London playing “swapping minds.” It’s an old game that came down from the Lowlands. It was a fine day so we had brought a little picnic. Melissa makes wonderful pâté, as good as anything from Fortnum & Masson. Yummy. And we had a half bottle of Chardonnay between us. Here is how the game of “swapping minds” goes. It’s not a child’s game, it’s very intellectual, or should I say psychological. Just imagine Melissa and I are talking. She says something to me, “James why are you always so arrogant?” But, obviously that’s not what she is thinking. To answer her I must try to imagine what she was thinking when she asked that. I must swap minds with her. I ventured the following: “Melissa, you have the most lovely white skin in England, you must be careful not to get sunburned. Melissa:“James, why do you pretend you are Scots when you’re really of Irish descent?” James:“Melissa, are you remembering the handsome Russian boy you met in the Hermitage on your trip to Russia and he took you to have an ice cream with him?” Melissa:“James, did the other boys in school tease you because you were so bad at games?” James:“Do you really love me or are you just flirting?” Melissa:“I’m sorry, James, but the response is in your mind, not in mine.” That was the end of the “swapping game” for that day, and such a happy day it was, there in Green Park, watching the ducks on the pond.

We practiced together, sweat and stained. We pummeled each other and laughed off pain. Teams may disagree, may tease, may blame. Teams may bicker and whine, but get down for the game. You had my back. We fought the fight. And though our score was less last night, we're walking tall. Our team came through and stuck together like Crazy Glue. I'm proud to say I lost with you.

Friends in a field, their shadows running long into the untilled ground, and I’m busy trying to catch up, calling for them to hold on a moment, the voice unfamiliar and the words not my own, and when 
I wake I realize the last thing I called to them might have been the name of the town we were all looking for, but now it’s a summer morning, the light coming in urgent with day, sheets strewn at the end of the bed, and by the time my mind reaches out for it, that name or word or thought, it’s gone, perhaps lying there up ahead, with them in the town beyond the old shed at the edge of the field, with its collection of discarded tools, hoes and picks and shovels still caked in loam and soil, the old two-furrow plough and an empty feedbag. There’s a persimmon tree, with its thin covering of leaves and its branches weighed by tightly packed, hard orange orbs, dense and 
ripening, and a thicket of rosemary sprawling about in the autumn sun, gone wild, looking like it might take over the world with its thick rough tines, the heavy scent that rubs off onto skin and lasts all day even after you wake. But thinking of that town my friends have gone on to, looking out the window at the summer light, the raging open blue of the sky outside, I cross past the old shed to where the harrowed ground forms the first hint of a path between the cherry trees lining the field, to where a pair of jackdaws come in from the north, creamy white throats quiet as the flat slate sky above, flit 
between some memory of spring, the one gone or the one up ahead.

To Mr. Lawrence Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son, Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire Help waste a sullen day; what may be won From the hard season gaining? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? He who of those delights can judge, and spare To interpose them oft, is not unwise.