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pjthompsonI've been grabbing boxes at random from the garage, hauling them into the house and leaving three or four in the entryway so I can unpack them when I get a moment here and there. As it happens, this weekend and this week I hit a couple of boxes with my poetry books inside. I had two shelves worth and still have more books out there somewhere, but I keep pulling old friends out of these boxes, old loves. And it's more than I can resist to share them during National Poetry Month.
These are all from A New Path to the Waterfall, his last work.
Proposal
I ask her and then she asks me. We each
accept. There's no back and forth about it. After nearly eleven years
together, we know our minds and more. And this postponement, it's
ripened too. Makes sense now. I suppose we should be
in a rose-filled garden or at least on a beautiful cliff overhanging
the sea, but we're on the couch, the one where sleep
sometimes catches us with our books open, or
some old Bette Davis movie unspools
in glamorous black and white—flames in the fireplace dancing
menacingly in the background as she ascends the marble
staircase with a sweet little snub-nosed
revolver, intending to snuff her ex-lover, the fur coat
he bought her draped loosely over her shoulders. Oh lovely, oh lethal
entanglements. In such a world
to be true.
A few days back some things got clear
about there not being all those years ahead we'd kept
assuming. The doctor going on finally about "the shell" I'd be
leaving behind, doing his best to steer us away from the veil of
tears and foreboding. "But he loves his life," I heard a voice say.
Hers. And the young doctor, hardly skipping a beat, "I know.
I guess you have to go through those seven stages. But you end
up in acceptance."
After that we went to lunch in a little cafe we'd never
been in before. She had pastrami. I had soup. A lot
of other people were having lunch too. Luckily
nobody we knew. We had plans to make, time pressing down
on us like a vise, squeezing out hope to make room for
the everlasting—that word making me want to shout "Is there
an Egyptian in the house?"
Back home we held on to each other and, without
embarrassment or caginess, let it all reach full meaning. This
was it, so any holding back had to be stupid, had to be
insane and meager. How many ever get to this? I thought
at the time. It's not far from here to needing
a celebration, a joining, a bringing of friends into it,
a handing out of champagne and
Perrier. "Reno," I said. "Let's go to Reno and get married."
In Reno, I told her, it's marriages
and remarriages twenty-four hours a day seven days a week. No
waiting period. Just "I do." And "I do." And if you slip
the preacher ten bucks extra, maybe he'll even furnish
a witness. Sure, she'd heard all
those stories of divorcees tossing their wedding rings into
the Truckee River and marching up to the altar ten minutes later
with someone new. Hadn't she thrown her own last wedding band
into the Irish Sea? But she agreed. Reno was just
the place. She had a green cotton dress I'd bought her in Bath.
She'd send it to the cleaners.
We were getting ready, as if we'd found an answer to
that question of what's left
when there's no more hope: the muffled sound of dice coming down
the felt-covered table, the lick of the wheel,
the slots ringing on into the night, and one more, one
more chance. And then that suite we engaged for.
Cherish
From the window I see her bend to the roses
holding close to the bloom so as not to
prick her fingers. With the other hand she clips, pauses and
clips, more alone in the world
than I had known. She won't
look up, not now. She's alone
with roses and with something else I can only think, not
say. I know the names of those bushes
given for our late wedding: Love, Honor, Cherish—
this last the rose she holds out to me suddenly, having
entered the house between glances. I press
my nose to it, draw the sweetness in, let it cling—scent
of promise, of treasure. My hand on her wrist to bring her close,
her eyes green as river-moss. Saying it then, against
what comes: wife, while I can, while my breath, each hurried petal
can still find her.
This Word Love
I will not go when she calls
even if she says I love you,
especially that,
even though she swears
and promises nothing
but love love.
The light in this room
covers every
thing equally;
even my arm throws no shadow,
it too is consumed with light.
But this word love—
this word grows dark, grows
heavy and shakes itself, begins
to eat, to shudder and convulse
its way through this paper
until we too have dimmed in
its transparent throat and still
are riven, are glistening, hip and thigh, your
loosened hair which knows
no hesitation.
These are all from A New Path to the Waterfall, his last work.
Proposal
I ask her and then she asks me. We each
accept. There's no back and forth about it. After nearly eleven years
together, we know our minds and more. And this postponement, it's
ripened too. Makes sense now. I suppose we should be
in a rose-filled garden or at least on a beautiful cliff overhanging
the sea, but we're on the couch, the one where sleep
sometimes catches us with our books open, or
some old Bette Davis movie unspools
in glamorous black and white—flames in the fireplace dancing
menacingly in the background as she ascends the marble
staircase with a sweet little snub-nosed
revolver, intending to snuff her ex-lover, the fur coat
he bought her draped loosely over her shoulders. Oh lovely, oh lethal
entanglements. In such a world
to be true.
A few days back some things got clear
about there not being all those years ahead we'd kept
assuming. The doctor going on finally about "the shell" I'd be
leaving behind, doing his best to steer us away from the veil of
tears and foreboding. "But he loves his life," I heard a voice say.
Hers. And the young doctor, hardly skipping a beat, "I know.
I guess you have to go through those seven stages. But you end
up in acceptance."
After that we went to lunch in a little cafe we'd never
been in before. She had pastrami. I had soup. A lot
of other people were having lunch too. Luckily
nobody we knew. We had plans to make, time pressing down
on us like a vise, squeezing out hope to make room for
the everlasting—that word making me want to shout "Is there
an Egyptian in the house?"
Back home we held on to each other and, without
embarrassment or caginess, let it all reach full meaning. This
was it, so any holding back had to be stupid, had to be
insane and meager. How many ever get to this? I thought
at the time. It's not far from here to needing
a celebration, a joining, a bringing of friends into it,
a handing out of champagne and
Perrier. "Reno," I said. "Let's go to Reno and get married."
In Reno, I told her, it's marriages
and remarriages twenty-four hours a day seven days a week. No
waiting period. Just "I do." And "I do." And if you slip
the preacher ten bucks extra, maybe he'll even furnish
a witness. Sure, she'd heard all
those stories of divorcees tossing their wedding rings into
the Truckee River and marching up to the altar ten minutes later
with someone new. Hadn't she thrown her own last wedding band
into the Irish Sea? But she agreed. Reno was just
the place. She had a green cotton dress I'd bought her in Bath.
She'd send it to the cleaners.
We were getting ready, as if we'd found an answer to
that question of what's left
when there's no more hope: the muffled sound of dice coming down
the felt-covered table, the lick of the wheel,
the slots ringing on into the night, and one more, one
more chance. And then that suite we engaged for.
Cherish
From the window I see her bend to the roses
holding close to the bloom so as not to
prick her fingers. With the other hand she clips, pauses and
clips, more alone in the world
than I had known. She won't
look up, not now. She's alone
with roses and with something else I can only think, not
say. I know the names of those bushes
given for our late wedding: Love, Honor, Cherish—
this last the rose she holds out to me suddenly, having
entered the house between glances. I press
my nose to it, draw the sweetness in, let it cling—scent
of promise, of treasure. My hand on her wrist to bring her close,
her eyes green as river-moss. Saying it then, against
what comes: wife, while I can, while my breath, each hurried petal
can still find her.
This Word Love
I will not go when she calls
even if she says I love you,
especially that,
even though she swears
and promises nothing
but love love.
The light in this room
covers every
thing equally;
even my arm throws no shadow,
it too is consumed with light.
But this word love—
this word grows dark, grows
heavy and shakes itself, begins
to eat, to shudder and convulse
its way through this paper
until we too have dimmed in
its transparent throat and still
are riven, are glistening, hip and thigh, your
loosened hair which knows
no hesitation.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 04:36 pm (UTC)And thank you for showing me poets I hadn't found yet.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 04:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 03:29 am (UTC)My favorite--the one that always makes me cry--is "Gravy". It reminds me of the year my grandmother was dying, and how we tried to cherish every one of the good moments.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 09:37 am (UTC)My favorite--the one that always makes me cry--is "Gravy".
Yes! One of my favorites, too. I almost posted it with this batch, but I didn't want to go overboard. :-)
no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 12:26 am (UTC)Margo.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 09:59 am (UTC)