Another Kitchen Fire, Or The Same One, Again

Just in time for the holidays, my Christmas/fire poem is out in Day Eight's beautiful anthology THE GREAT WORLD OF DAYS. (I have a bad habit of starting fires on holidays—probably because that's when I'm most likely to be in the kitchen.)

Read the poem here, and get your copy of THE GREAT WORLD OF DAYS here.

Early Fireworks

We named an entire forest of treetops,
Their heads bursting into life, then
Fading out fast like the faces
Of movie stars. Layered, stacked, three
Skies’ worth of foliage, painted
In the disappearing ink of gunpowder and flame.
We saw a shower of dogwoods, petals
Popping into bloom.
You pointed at the branches
Of the heavenly apple tree.

And every so often,
Like a fast-repeating New Year’s Eve
Or the rebirth of the Buddha--
The trailing golden arms
Of the God-sized weeping willow,
The same revelation every time.




photograph by Rob and Briony

The Death of Pan

A divine voice hailed him across the salt water, "Thamus, are you there? When you reach Palodes, take care to proclaim that the great god Pan is dead."

This is, of course,
ridiculous. Show me a grave.
Show me a meadow
in the damp nights of June
that does not flatten
under the backs of laughing lovers.
Look you here, in the whorls
of my beard, and tell me
I am dead. Lift your head.
Breathe in deep.
The grass you smell
has not been trampled
by Christians, sir:
that music is not
of the chapel.





painting: Pan and Psyche by Sir Edward Burne-Jones

Interlude: Other People's Poetry

The May Queen

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the
May.

There’s many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as
mine;
There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline;
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,
So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the
May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the
May.

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,
But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the
May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the
May.

They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be;
They say his heart is breaking, mother–what is that to me?
There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the
May.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,
And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen;
For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the
May.

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and
hollows gray,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the
May.

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the
May.

All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the
May.

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;
To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the
May.



-Alfred, Lord Tennyson







photograph by Bethanie De Veau

Driving Home, Dayenu

The red-tailed hawk in the parking lot,
tracking me as I found my car.

The black bulk of the vulture
by the dry side of the highway.

The robin picking rock salt
from the deepest driveway cracks.

(A heart will swell until it bumps a rib
when the eyes report such wonders.)

If it had been these three,
it would have been enough.

After the Inauguration

The office is snow-fall silent.
As I pass rows of desks, fingers
are gentler on the keys, tissues meet
the corners of quickly drying eyes.
No one speaks. A girl puts
her sandwich into the toaster oven,
closing the little door
as though a baby slept inside.

On screen the crowd dispersed
in easy, graceful rows, breaking off
like plates of ice above a thawing stream.



Photograph by Susan Walsh - AP

In 2009 I Will...

...spit it out,

all of it,

and know that
the world will not end.




What about you?

A Connecticut Christmas

They are graduates all
of the Saint Michael's choirs,
these Cooks and Waterhouses
and Smiths. The carols
swing fast from timid waking -
a musical slumber
these twelve thick months - to Baroque
descants, four-part harmony.
Behind a man I have just met
I am propped on the bathroom door.

This is the year's one day
the glossy piano knows contact.
Dessert has been laid
on the gleaming buffet,
but the choir soldiers on.
Once in a while a neighbor
mouths, "Come, sing," to me
from a rosy couch. "Come, sing."
The voices are careless, sincere.

Weary husbands rock
on the balls of their feet, arms full
of fur coats. Their wives are full too.
The first glass to remember,
the second pretending, the third
to soak up the mess of the others.
I have climbed the stairs
for my notebook. Down in the library
a young tenor has won
the piano bench. The notes

float up, not Christmas at all,
but Journey. The tenor downstairs
looks for me and my flushed cheeks
at the borders,
and I am not there.



photograph by the indomitable Rachel K

The Blessing of the Animals

The congregants were mostly dogs, but
a perforated box here, a glass bowl there hinted
at smaller souls.
We arrived at the close of the second hymn. The little black dog
wrapped her leash around my legs
and ate the dew-anointed grass of the wide church lawn.

With the patient priest's approach the spaniel offered
her neglected, itchy back, expecting relief
and receiving something different
altogether. Her stub tail stalled,
her whiskered brows shot aloft
with the strange new love of this Saturday morning.




photograph by Sarah Gilbert

The Fourth of July

for everyone who writes

Today, to me, you are Fitzgerald,
and I know I've just got Gatsby on the brain but you,
you, my love, and your swirling clouds of the Hamptons--
there is none who can match you.

That glowing shape in my chest inflates
with your unwitting touch, you
could not know just how bare my shores lie
when your high tides have gone.

So much is wrong, here, everywhere,
at the bottom of the coffee cup, at the top
of the apartment building--but the aloe
of your voice will cool the burns of even the sun
today.



photograph by Todd Atteberry

Beautiful Woman

after Vashti of Persia

It had been
A long time coming. The drink
Spilled fast, and men’s beards grew heavy
On their chests. The musicians
Had gone home, all broken strings
And red fingers, their pockets
Tinkling like cymbals. And still
You roared on, clapped your advisors
Hearty on their sleep-sloped velvet shoulders.
I heard my name. The idea took whole minutes
To push from your wine-loose lips.
I was summoned. “Beautiful,” you bubbled.
“Beautiful, beautiful
woman.”

In the room of my mind I packed
My slippers, my gold-embroidered robe,
“I want to show—everyone—“
a heavy traveling cloak,
“Just how beautiful—“
the silver knife from my mother,
“you are.”
I counted silently on one hand the servants
Who would leave with me,
Took one long breath
And lifted my eyes.





photograph by DeviantArt user EnglishTeaLeaf

March

So much collides
In these small days. Today
Spring begins, and Purim at sundown:
The earth rolls sleepily into a patch
Of sunlight. We don masks
And crowns.
Tomorrow Jesus will die,
And the moon will fill herself
Full. Sunday he will rise:
Small feet will shift
In ankle socks. We speak
Murder to one another;
Fertility, salvation. Birdsong.
We are wrapped
In the sky-blue skirts
Of holy women and heroines, and red forgiveness
Runs down the aisles. We will hide our faces
And plant eggs
Like they were seeds. We will all
Be reborn.



photograph by DeviantArt user planetkat

Noli Me Tangere

after Mary Magdalene

Later you will write
That he didn’t mean it, you must
Have read it wrong,
Have mistranslated.

You will light him gold from within,
Reopen his wounds, soften his cracked lips.
You did not hear the hoarse whisper,
See the hard line of his back,
His oil-softened hair.

You will not know how brief that moment
When his eyes stepped into mine,
How my heart rent seconds later
When he turned to the tear-tracked dust.

He had changed, those three days
In the dark, had grown taller,
His jaw firm.

You did not watch him sway
As I did then, his legs locked
To fight the pain, eyes closed tight
Against the sun.




detail of The Appearance of Christ to Mary Magdalene by Alexander Ivanov

Unsent

after St. Catherine de Ricci

I gave this pain your name
and it made me holy.
When my heart failed, my eyes,
my breath, I carved visions of your promises
in my skin.
When I could no longer speak
I spoke with you,
but you never told a soul--
the awful lilies, Lord, the horrible roses.
You knew the weight of their perfume
would be my undoing.

And now they bring me pink angels,
silk shoes, golden chalices of your blood,
and take my silence
for a blessing.




I figured that since today is St. Catherine's feast day, I'd dust off this classic from all the way back in September. Looking at it now, I have absolutely no idea what the title means or why I chose it. I'm open to suggestions.

Index by artist Ariana Page Russell.

The Annunciation

He came at midday and spoke with the voice
of old lovers I would never have.

He said my name. As he turned to go
a feather grazed my cheek.
I watched the floor.

The sun crawled toward its empty bed
and as the chill of desert evening drew near
I did not move.

Gold went purple;
with the first star I was lit.
I rose to bake the next day's bread,
the scent of lilies in my hair.



Art: The Annunciation by James C. Christensen

The Holiday Spirit

Every year she forgot; every year she looked forward
to decorating the cookies, the tree, the windows.
She imagined gingerbread men with pink bow ties,
a porcelain creche softly lit by colored lights,
popcorn and cranberries in neat, full strands.
This year the tree went up. She stood around, waiting for someone
to fill her hands with glass ornaments,
cranberries hard from the refrigerator, a bowl of frosting.
This year as the day went dark the family dispersed,
and she lay on the couch watching White Christmas alone.
As a gray sleep overtook her
she wished for new snow.