disappear

I've missed the last couple of days because of migraines (not uncommon, although I would be grateful if this super shitty migraine cycle I've been in for the last few weeks would break), and usually when something like this happens, I like to post long poems or multiple poems on a theme to make up for the missed days. I did not actually have a plan for this, but then my terrible friend Clare sent me a poem that was published today as part of the New York Public Library's Pocket Poems, and I thought, "I know what we need: a suite of devastating Orpheus and Eurydice poems!" Thanks, Clare. Since I collect Orpheus and Eurydice poems, this was less challenging than one might imagine. Here are three.

He lies on the grass. One hippogriff
of cloud becomes another: expanding,
contracting. It’s all unreal, the same
sky and river, the scent of living
things. The last of the ice floes passes
on the water, shears in two
pieces against the bridge. He studies
his hands, bitten fingernails. Every
time he turns he feels the stamping hooves,

the great herd. A man can get used
to anything, grow accustomed to
a change of seasons, each snap
of the moon. Even when he’s stretched
out on this slope he hears a steady
thrumming. It’s a long way off,
but he lies still, pretending. Once
he put candles in each window
of her body: a thousand wavering
lights. Back then he knew about fire.

—Anne Simpson (b. 1956), "Orpheus Afterwards," originally published in TLS, 2004.

Where would I be without my sorrow,
sorrow of my beloved's making,
without some sign of him, this song
of all gifts the most lasting?

How would you like to die
while Orpheus was singing?
A long death; all the way to Dis
I heard him.

Torment of earth
Torment of mortal passion—

I think sometimes
too much is asked of us;
I think sometimes
our consolations are the costliest thing.

All the way to Dis
I heard my husband singing
much as you now hear me.

Perhaps it was better that way,
my love fresh in my head
even at the moment of death.

Not the first response—
that was terror—
but the last.

—Louise Glück, "Relic," from Vita Nova, 1999.

she calls to ask if my dead father
has called me on the phone / no, I say

while a tiny flicker of electricity fireflies
up my spine / did he call you?

yes, she says, and then she looked for him -
under the covers, behind the mirror -

she looked and looked, and he wasn't there
he disappear, she says / (he disappear)

—Lee Ann Roripaugh, "my Japanese mother as Orpheus, with dementia," originally published in the NYPL's Pocket Poems, April 22 2020.

when day is gone and night is come

My quarantine Dorothy Dunnett book club finished reading A Game of Kings yesterday and started Queens' Play today, so here's some good old classic Robbie Burns, in honor of Scotland (and the OT3 I believe in most strongly in the Lymond Chronicles: Francis/Scotland/Naps).

It was a' for our rightful king
       That we left fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for our rightful king
       We e'er saw Irish land,
              My dear,
       We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do,
       And a' is done in vain!
My love, and native land, fareweel!
       For I maun cross the main,
              My dear,
       For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about,
       Upon the Irish shore,
He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
       With, Adieu for evermore,
              My dear!
       And adieu for evermore!

The soldier frae the war returns,
       And the merchant frae the main.
But I hae parted frae my love,
       Never to meet again,
              My dear,
       Never to meet again.

When day is gone and night is come,
       And a' folk bound to sleep,
I think on him that's far awa
       The lee-lang night, and weep,
              My dear,
       The lee-lang night, and weep.

—Robert Burns (1759–1796), "It was a' for our Rightful King." According to a very small amount of Googling, likely originally published in 1796 anonymously, and "supposed to be spoken by a Jacobite" (I mean, yes). This poem reportedly provides "an interesting example of the use which Burns often made of earlier Scottish songs and ballads and is based on the ballad of Mallie Stewart." I am not a Burns expert in any way, but this seems plausible.

only your savage heart

This poem is also for Lan Wangji, and for Wei Wuxian, and for my extraordinarily talented friend helcinda, who just posted her phenomenal vid album, The Black Parade: an Untamed Vid Album. It's a masterpiece, and I honestly don't have words for how good it is, or for how many times it has made me cry and clutch my heart with feelings. So, in honor of those feelings, here's some Pablo Neruda. I post a lot of Neruda, but let's be honest: he wrote some of the very best love poetry in any language, and I always spend at least a couple of hours narrowing down my choices. This seemed like the right one, today. ♥

De las estrellas que admiré, mojadas
por ríos y rocíos diferentes,
yo no escogí sino la que yo amaba
y desde entonces duermo con la noche.

De la ola, una ola y otra ola,
verde mar, verde frío, rama verde,
yo no escogí sino una sola ola:
la ola indivisible de tu cuerpo.

Todos las gotas, todas las raíces,
todos los hilos de la luz vinieron,
me vinieron a ver tarde o temprano.

Yo quise para mí tu cabellera.
Y de todos los dones de mi patria
sólo escogí tu corazón salvaje.


Of all the stars I admired, drenched
in various rivers and mists,
I chose only the one I love.
Since then I sleep with the night.

Of all the waves, one wave and another wave,
green sea, green chill, branchings of green,
I chose only the one wave,
the indivisible wave of your body.

All the waterdrops, all the roots,
all the threads of light gathered to me here;
they came to me sooner or later.

I wanted your hair, all for myself.
From all the graces my homeland offered
I chose only your savage heart.

—Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), XLVI from Cien sonetos de amor, or One Hundred Love Sonnets, translated by Stephen Tapscott (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986).

in the yearning

This poem is for Lan Wangji.

He is watching the music with his eyes closed.
Hearing the piano like a man moving
through the woods thinking by feeling.
The orchestra up in the trees, the heart below,
step by step. The music hurrying sometimes,
but always returning to quiet, like the man
remembering and hoping. It is a thing in us,
mostly unnoticed. There is somehow a pleasure
in the loss. In the yearning. The pain
going this way and that. Never again.
Never bodied again. Again the never.
Slowly. No undergrowth. Almost leaving.
A humming beauty in the silence.
The having been. Having had. And the man
knowing all of him will come to the end.

—Jack Gilbert (1925-2012), "After Love" from The Dance Most of All, 2009. This poem was also—I believe originally, although I couldn't swear to it—published in The New Yorker on June 30, 2008.

arrogance in the universe

I love Lucille Clifton for a lot of reasons, but one of the things I love about her poetry is that she just never pulls her punches even a little, and it's pretty glorious. Today this poem is dedicated to the cramps I've had for two days, and also, like, Andrew Cuomo.

i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
I wish them no 7-11.

i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.

later i wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn't believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.

let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.

—Lucille Clifton (1936-2010), "wishes for sons" from Quilting: Poems 1987-1990.

with your cargo of zithers

I've been feeling pretty crappy all day (headache, cramps, general icky malaise) and I almost went to bed without posting a poem. But then I thought, well, maybe a little Rita Dove would make the day a little better.

Snow would be the easy
way out—that softening
sky like a sigh of relief
at finally being allowed
to yield. No dice.
We stack twigs for burning
in glistening patches
but the rain won't give.

So we wait, breeding
mood, making music
of decline. We sit down
in the smell of the past
and rise in a light
that is already leaving.
We ache in secret,
memorizing

a gloomy line
or two of German.
When spring comes
we promise to act
the fool. Pour,
rain! Sail, wind,
with your cargo of zithers!

—Rita Dove, "November for Beginners," Poetry Magazine, November, 1981.

begin

It's my birthday! I turn thirty-five today, not completely in isolation: I'm going out for a long walk this afternoon to pick up the lemon meringue pie I ordered from a local family-owned bakery that's still open for pick-up orders, and I have plans for a small, low-key party on zoom tonight with some friends and family. I read some fic this morning, and then a bunch of poetry, and although it's fairly overcast, it's also fairly warm, and the sun is peaking out through the clouds. There are still a lot of things worth celebrating.

For almost all of the last thirteen years, I've posted poems by either Auden or Donne—two of my very favorite, best beloved, and remarkably prolific poets—on my birthday. I haven't run out of either Auden or Donne poems (as witness the fact that I already posted a Donne poem earlier this month), but I think it's time to change the tradition. Starting this year, I will be posting poems on my birthday by new-to-me poets, or at least by poets I haven't posted before. We'll see how long this plan lasts (you never know), but let's give it a try. Here's Linda Pastan:

For Anna

Let every tree
burst into blossom
whatever the season.
Let the snow melt
mild as milk
and the new rain wash
the gutters clean
of last year's
prophecies.
Let the guns sweep out
their chambers
and the criminals doze
dreaming themselves
back to infancy.
Let the sailors throw
their crisp white caps
as high as they can
which like so many doves
will return to the ark
with lilacs.
Let the frogs turn
into princes,
the princes to frogs.
Let the madrigals,
let the musical croakings
begin.

—Linda Pastan (b. 1932), "Proclamation at a Birth" from Carnival Evening, 1998, and posted on The Writer's Almanac on April 14, 2012.

the gauzy edge of paradise

I know I said I was finishing the devotional poetry with Herbert, but then I went and read some Anne Sexton. Does this count as devotional poetry? Maybe. I love this poem so much. Full spoilers, but there are flying nuns.

I am surprised to see
that the ocean is still going on.
Now I am going back
and I have ripped my hand
from your hand as I said I would
and I have made it this far
as I said I would
and I am on the top deck now
holding my wallet, my cigarettes
and my car keys
at 2 o'clock on a Tuesday
in August of 1960.

Dearest,
although everything has happened,
nothing has happened.
The sea is very old.
The sea is the face of Mary,
without miracles or rage
or unusual hope,
grown rough and wrinkled
with incurable age.

Still,
I have eyes.
These are my eyes:
the orange letters that spell
ORIENT on the life preserver
that hangs by my knees;
the cement lifeboat that wears
its dirty canvas coat;
the faded sign that sits on its shelf
saying KEEP OFF.
Oh, all right, I say,
I'll save myself.

Over my right shoulder
I see four nuns
who sit like a bridge club,
their faces poked out
from under their habits,
as good as good babies who
have sunk into their carriages.
Without discrimination
the wind pulls the skirts
of their arms.
Almost undressed,
I see what remains:
that holy wrist,
that ankle,
that chain.

Oh God,
although I am very sad,
could you please
let these four nuns
loosen from their leather boots
and their wooden chairs
to rise out
over this greasy deck,
out over this iron rail,
nodding their pink heads to one side,
flying four abreast
in the old-fashioned side stroke;
each mouth open and round,
breathing together
as fish do,
singing without sound.

Dearest,
see how my dark girls sally forth,
over the passing lighthouse of Plum Gut,
its shell as rusty
as a camp dish,
as fragile as a pagoda
on a stone;
out over the little lighthouse
that warns me of drowning winds
that rub over its blind bottom
and its blue cover;
winds that will take the toes
and the ears of the rider
or the lover.

There go my dark girls,
their dresses puff
in the leeward air.
Oh, they are lighter than flying dogs
or the breath of dolphins;
each mouth opens gratefully,
wider than a milk cup.
My dark girls sing for this.
They are going up.
See them rise
on black wings, drinking
the sky, without smiles
or hands
or shoes.
They call back to us
from the gauzy edge of paradise,
good news, good news.

—Anne Sexton (1928-1974), "Letter Written on a Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound" from All My Pretty Ones, 1962.

love bade me welcome

Rounding out the last several days of devotional poetry: George Herbert. I always think about posting Easter Wings on Easter, but the problem is that any type-rendered version looks wrong to me; it's a poem that's fundamentally meant for manuscript, where it's much easier to write out as visual wings. But I started today—before reading a bunch of Herbert this afternoon—by making a very spectacular brunch for one (deviled eggs, oven bacon, blueberry buttermilk pancakes) and then watching Jesus Christ Superstar online with friends. It wasn't how today was supposed to go, pre-virus, but it had its moments. And I think we can probably all use a little metaphysical love in our lives.

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
                                Guilty of dust and sinne.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
                                From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
                                If I lack'd any thing.

A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here:
                                Love said, you shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
                                I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
                                Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
                                Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
                                My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
                                So I did sit and eat.

—George Herbert (1593-1633), "Love (III)" from The Temple, 1633. This is the closing lyric of The Temple, and I took it from the excellent Helen Wilcox edition of The English Poems of George Herbert (Cambridge University Press, 2007), but slightly modernized the spelling. This is one of the most widely discussed and known of Herbert's poems, and I think it's pretty special.

quite impossible to photograph

Getting this in just under the wire, tonight. Did you guys know that cats are extremely good? Mine have been especially excellent, today.

It's a law as immutable as the ones
governing bodies in motion and bodies at rest
that a cat picked up will never stay
in the place where you choose to set it down.

I bet you'd be happy on the sofa
or this hassock or this knitted throw pillow
are a few examples of bets you are bound to lose.

The secret of winning, I have found,
is to never bet against the cat but on the cat
preferably with another human being
who, unlike the cat, is likely to be carrying money.

And I cannot think of a better time
to thank our cat for her obedience to that law
thus turning me into a consistent winner.

She's a pure black one, quite impossible
to photograph and prone to disappearing
into the night or even into the thin shadows of noon.

Such an amorphous blob of blackness is she
the only way to tell she is approaching
is to notice the two little yellow circles of her eyes

then only one circle when she is walking away
with her tail raised high—something like
the lantern signals of Paul Revere,
American silversmith, galloping patriot.

—Billy Collins (b. 1941), "Lucky Cat" from The Rain in Portugal, 2016. I own more books of poetry by Billy Collins than any other single author, with the possible exception of John Donne.