872 Life poems

The equilibrium of any particular aspect of nature rests on the equivalence of its opposites. —Piet Mondrian Some land lives so water can comb it into grids. This is why lowlands tilt still toward the sea. This so we call our canal leaning horse, hat tempting wind, somewhere a tear in linen where the loom bent a heddle. We plant lapis in the middle of begonia boxes hung from our houseboat’s sills. At night the eels snug against our houseboat’s hum, water’s warm hem. We hear them slip itch into our floor. Our houseboat lilts when the bigger boats slide us waves. Our concrete floats. We’re mostly moored to stay. In the damp bank where the ducks hedge weeds, our bikes sleep. We lean toward wind. Our pant legs thin from all the rain on our knees. From here the horizon gauzes above us. We are half hidden by light. We are folds in fog. We stand open on the deck and beckon the silt to settle. We wait for a balance so grand that any flicker of inverse could pull us up to spires.

FOR "I'm leaving you," she said, "for you make me sick." But of course she didn't say that. She thought the "for"; she admired its elegant distance, the way it's wedged like an iron strut between result and cause, the way it's almost "far," and dire as a raised eyebrow. She liked the way it sounds like speaking through a cardboard paper towel tube, using it for a megaphone: not loud, but strong, all those compacted years shoving out the other end, as if she were certain she wanted to be alone. OR The first four bars of Beethoven's sixth, the Pastorale , repeat and repeat, always with variation: or , and or , something to violate expectations, not fully antiphonal, only an oar dipped into the measure to make an interior swirl, pulling the craft slightly to the side, yet ahead, still: little cupped trails alongside to mark where the mind turned, questions were asked, and shed, before moving on, nothing that can't be repaired. NOR As a flower sheds petal after petal, as further tests strip away one after another of the last hopes for a cure, as a person shakes into the waste bin all her cigarettes and goes down the street not knowing who she is, the pure air of saints is achieved by abandonment: Jesus in the garden alone, cold moon disappearing, Buddha at the morning star, mind emptied of its snarl of ignorance. Neither to harden against loss, nor to welcome it. To let it be who you are.

I am doing laps at night, alone In the indoor pool. Outside It is snowing, but I am warm And weightless, suspended and out Of time like a fly in amber. She is thousands of miles From here, and miles above me, Ghosting the stratosphere, Heading from New York to London. Though it is late, even At that height, I know her light Is on, her window a square Of gold as she reads mysteries Above the Atlantic. I watch The line of black tile on the pool’s Floor, leading me down the lane. If she looks down by moonlight, Under a clear sky, she will see Black water. She will see me Swimming distantly, moving far From shore, suspended with her In flight through the wide gulf As we swim toward land together.

of these long scorching days but today my daughter is truly exasperating— Stop it! I shout—or I’ll— and I twist her little pinked arm slowly, calibrating my ferocity— You can’t hurt me you can’t hurt me! She’s so defiant, glowering, glaring at me— but frightened, her eyes bright with tears— See, I’m not even crying! I see. But it’s the angel of extermination I see, shining in his black trappings, and turning ecstatically toward him, a little Jewish girl tempts him to play his game of massacre. —after Vittorio Sereni

Nowhere in those kerosene years could she find a soft-headed match. The wife crosses over an ocean, red-faced and cheerless. Trades the flat pad of a stethoscope for a dining hall spatula. Life is two choices, she thinks: you hatch a life, or you pass through one. Photographs of a child swaddled in layers arrive by post. Money doesn’t, to her embarrassment. Over time, she grows out her hair. Then she sprouts nerves. The wife was no fool, but neither did she wander. She lives inside a season of thrift, which stretches on. Her sorrow has thickness and a certain sheen. The wife knows to hurry when she washes. When she cooks, she licks spoons slowly. Every night, she made a dish with ground pork. Paired with a dish that was fibrous.

--The former President lost his temper. Loss of content in our public life. Only forms remain, intonation, affect.Why did you  yell in my mom’s house? Radhika asks our neighbor. --She sounded like she does when her hands shake. She does not want to be there. Bryant calls to ask about her things. A tape on osteoperosis. No. Foundations of Economics (from the 1930s). No. The Soviet shelf. No. The Nazi shelf. No. The Greeks, the Moslems. No. The speech and drama shelf. No. Encyclopedias, no. Check reigsters back to 1964. No. Harry Truman, no. Mrs. Ike, no. --Was her reading too intense? -- Grief is excess of sound. Anger is excess of form. Sadness can lack, or still exceed. Excess is overtone, the note beyond the note you sound. Without the tone, there is no object.Did I kill Bin Laden? No. But I tried. --My task is to inventory sentences, place them in order, box them up and ship them in a container. They are a sturdy furniture, haphazard art. They are boxes of papers, bills, pieces of a dissertation. A computer shopper magazine (discard). Titles whose aura was a life, or two, or three. The house is now full of light. A girl wanders through the rooms, trying keys at the windows. My mother knows none of this. --My father might be in the garden, or the scarecrow that wears his hat. Let him wander the house this last, inspect the plumbing, lights, air conditioning, the rows of beans, sort through medals, papers, release them as excess. posted by Susan at 12:44 PM 0 comments

Drunken laughter escapes Behind the fence woven With honeysuckle, up to where I stand. Daddy’s running-buddy, Carson, is beside him. In the time It takes to turn & watch a woman Tiptoe & pull a sheer blouse off The clothesline, to see her sun-lit Dress ride up peasant legs Like the last image of mercy, three Are drinking from the Mason jar. That’s the oak we planted The day before I left town, As if father & son Needed staking down to earth. If anything could now plumb Distance, that tree comes close, Recounting lost friends As they turn into mist. The woman stands in a kitchen Folding a man’s trousers— Her chin tucked to hold The cuffs straight. I’m lonely as those storytellers In my father’s backyard I shall join soon. Alone As they are, tilting back heads To let the burning ease down. The names of women melt In their mouths like hot mints, As if we didn’t know Old Man Pagget’s Stoopdown is doctored with Slivers of Red Devil Lye.

We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides; The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides. But tasks in hours of insight will'd Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd. With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return, All we have built do we discern. Then, when the clouds are off the soul, When thou dost bask in Nature's eye, Ask, how she view'd thy self-control, Thy struggling, task'd morality— Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. And she, whose censure thou dost dread, Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, See, on her face a glow is spread, A strong emotion on her cheek! "Ah, child!" she cries, "that strife divine, Whence was it, for it is not mine? "There is no effort on my brow— I do not strive, I do not weep; I rush with the swift spheres and glow In joy, and when I will, I sleep. Yet that severe, that earnest air, I saw, I felt it once—but where? "I knew not yet the gauge of time, Nor wore the manacles of space; I felt it in some other clime, I saw it in some other place. 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, And lay upon the breast of God."

Sometimes I say I’m going to meet my sister at the café— even though I have no sister—just because it’s such a beautiful thing to say. I’ve always thought so, ever since I read a novel in which two sisters were constantly meeting in cafés. Today, for example, I walked alone on the wet sidewalk, wearing my rain boots, expecting someone might ask where I was headed. I bought a steno pad and a watch battery, the store windows fogged up. Rain in April is a kind of promise, and it costs nothing. I carried a bag of books to the café and ordered tea. I like a place that’s lit by lamps. I like a place where you can hear people talk about small things, like the difference between azure and cerulean, and the price of tulips. It’s going down. I watched someone who could be my sister walk in, shaking the rain from her hair. I thought, even now florists are filling their coolers with tulips, five dollars a bundle. All over the city there are sisters. Any one of them could be mine.

I went to the dances at Chandlerville, And played snap-out at Winchester. One time we changed partners, Driving home in the moonlight of middle June, And then I found Davis. We were married and lived together for seventy years, Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children, Eight of whom we lost Ere I had reached the age of sixty. I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick, I made the garden, and for holiday Rambled over the fields where sang the larks, And by Spoon River gathering many a shell, And many a flower and medicinal weed — Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys. At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all, And passed to a sweet repose. What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness, Anger, discontent and drooping hopes? Degenerate sons and daughters, Life is too strong for you — It takes life to love Life.