Two Lost Poems in Doubleback Review

My poems "Amaryllis" and "The Death of the Lobster" were both first published a few years ago. Then the magazines in which they appeared went under, and the poems disappeared.

I am very happy to report that both poems have been excavated and republished by the brand-new Doubleback Review, which specializes in doing precisely this thing.

Read the poems here.

To the God of Rocks

"Not for man, but for the bee, the moth, and the butterfly, are orchids where they are and what they are."

Neltje Blanchan, from Wild Flowers Worth Knowing, 1917

Then what are we to think
of the hapless geode? Why ever line
the stone’s stomach
with glittering, secret cities? What benign purpose
could these skylines possibly serve?

For a full stone age you sat idly by
as the peacocks bickered
on Olympus. Some glint
of their meddlesome eyes
must have bounced across the clouds.

And your poor geode would have slept--
cozy in his earthen nest—had you
not betrayed him. With a shameless brush
you tarred heartless stars
into his good gray skin.

And now the peacocks’ playthings
pluck your sparkling plum from the dust.
They gather with growing fists. Suspect his shine.
They chant for an answer. Smash him
to shards.



photograph by flickr user EDF Andromeda

Interlude: Other People's Poetry

Lorelei

It is no night to drown in:
A full moon, river lapsing
Black beneath bland mirror-sheen,

The blue water-mists dropping
Scrim after scrim like fishnets
Though fishermen are sleeping,

The massive castle turrets
Doubling themselves in a glass
All stillness. Yet these shapes float

Up toward me, troubling the face
Of quiet. From the nadir
They rise, their limbs ponderous

With richness, hair heavier
Than sculptured marble. They sing
Of a world more full and clear

Than can be. Sisters, your song
Bears a burden too weighty
For the whorled ear's listening

Here, in a well-steered country,
Under a balanced ruler.
Deranging by harmony

Beyond the mundane order,
Your voices lay siege. You lodge
On the pitched reefs of nightmare,

Promising sure harborage;
By day, descant from borders
Of hebetude, from the ledge

Also of high windows. Worse
Even than your maddening
Song, your silence. At the source

Of your ice-hearted calling --
Drunkenness of the great depths.
O river, I see drifting

Deep in your flux of silver
Those great goddesses of peace.
Stone, stone, ferry me down there.



Sylvia Plath (October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963)
illustration by Arthur Rackham

An Appeal to Hestia, on the Eve of My Son's First Semester

I make a fire in my hands and look skyward,
and then look down again; the goddess of what matters
doesn't dally in the clouds. Set the fire
in front of me. This small flame,
this first sacrifice, I offer,
where I can't draw in salt
or burn sweet herbs. Keep him warm.
Keep him safe. May his new home
be a new home and not
just a cold room, a room
too far away.






photograph by Tom

Pallas Athene

Here where the marble toes
Crumble, a temple. Can you see it?
Hundreds and hundreds of years ago,
Before these streets had stones.

She was a great beauty,
This Pallas Athene, not unlike your grandmother
In her own way.
When first they brought Athene here
She was a perfect picture of war;
Seabirds did not dare land on her.

Look at her now. See that white tear?
This is the rain of ages appearing.
But look, my daughter,
At the wind-worn face:
Time has smoothed the chiseled cheeks;
Her eyes are soft as Aphrodite's.



photo courtesy of P at What Possessed Me.

The First Man to See Jupiter

"Tall as the sky, with a beard
mountains could get lost in. Blue,"

the first man stammered, "Did I mention
he's blue? And for one second the whole
ocean stopped to listen, and he looked my way
and he winked. I can't believe

you missed it."




photograph by flickr user miuvincent

The Last Time I Saw My Sister

There were so many things I wanted
to know. What it means, exactly,
to breathe another in. How it feels
to drown. We all

Had questions for her, admonitions,
pleas. We came with salvation,
the crooked blade
our father sent. We had traversed

The shadows of slow whales
to reach her, but like all lovers,
she misunderstood.




painting: The Sea Maidens by Evelyn de Morgan

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

Pygmalion at Dusk

Woman, you are built of bone
and you will never leave me.
Some sunsets I see
a shine in your eye, but I
will carve it from you.




photograph: "Galatea" by Iian Neill
sculpture: "Pygmalion and Galatea" by Falconet

Half-Haiku: The Firebird Again

Without belief the phoenix
is just a bird on fire.




photograph by Zoolien

Ganymede's Petition to Hera

My lady, I swear to you,
I am not worth these eagles.
This is no cup that I have known,
My small hands cannot lift it.

My lady, I swear to you,
My flock has lost their eyes.
The wool has all been wasted.
My father died a thin man.

My lady, I swear to you,
My feet long for the dry earth.
My lord's most endless Titan thighs
are no home to my heart.




illustration by Lovis Corinth
more about Ganymede here

The Firebird Does Not Learn

She is an egg and every shadowed glance,
every silent forest destroys her.
She is newborn and the shark-tooth grit
of the earth clings to her wet eyes.
She is in flames, the jeweled fire
that everyone remembers,
and then, what she had not foreseen,
She is burned and not consumed.
Burned. She feels her feathers
knit together. Burned. It hurts her
to heal. She is still.
She dreams of the next dawn,
a darkness, a nest of ash.




The Firebird, illustration by Edmund Dulac

Spring

The carrots are born and the rabbits
are dying. The root came up--
crayon orange, firm with promise--from
the dry rows just off the porch.

Over the fence the neighbor's pool
has claimed another rabbit. Face first
like a fish. Still as a lily pad.
Her nose does not know
the riches are ready.






photograph by Emily McPhie

Shiva's Granddaughter in Late-Night Meditation

"Barn's burnt down--
now I can see the moon."
-Mizuta Masahide

With every sunset her appetite grew.
She prayed for the pipes to burst,
for a fire in an electrical storm,
an unlikely New England earthquake. She dreamt
of her bookshelves embedded
in beating hearts of flame,
the good white china crunching in fragments
beneath the smoldering rubble.
And, miles away in the dark,
a secret hand to wipe the soot
from her tear-damp cheeks.




photograph by Mark Allanson

For Jason, Who Hates Me Now

after Medea

We were such little animals then,
all paws and teeth and eyes.
We made a tree house of our leafy love
and together pulled up the basket.
Each night you burst into flames.
By morning the leaves were black lace,
the floorboards damp with dew, and I
breathed ashes with every dawn.
Through charred branches the sunrise showed me
open fields, trees without scars. Daisies
unafraid to smile.

And yet, years later, you smolder.
My fingers have grown long and nimble;
I know now the secrets of enchantment. Eyeliner.
Backbone. Magic we could not
have imagined. And yet, in
this cool night, in a mass of my own
now-dark hair, the tendrils in my chest
reach skyward, hopeful.




painting by Evelyn de Morgan

After the Opera

The cherubs emerged first,
ringlets unwinding as they moved
through the crowd. In the careless light of the parish hall
their girl-eyes grew shadows,
their child-hands wedding bands.

One by one angels, shepherds,
graces drifted from cloud
to dessert table, their feathered feet
landing hard on the church carpet.

Outside the moon wore
her only mask. Cupid met us
in the hall; the elastic straps of her wings
had carved red lines in her shoulders.
"We're getting married," she said
with a shrug. "Wanted you
to know."

As we crept from the reception Adonis appeared,
silk leaves still tangled in his hair. His bangled mother
drew him close: "So wonderful, honey.
So perfect, love."



painting by John William Waterhouse

Overactive, Daughter of the Pantheon

She opened her mouth wide and pushed the disk of the moon in,
held it on her tongue like the body of Christ.
Last week she had hit a cat with her car,
and as she buried its cooling heart commended
its soul to what gods as would find it
and weigh it properly,
and its body to the mounds of earth
just off the Post Road.
As the first drops of rain spotted her cheeks
she felt her feet growing together,
silver-scaled like armor.

Mummified Cat by Cassandra Barney

Three Seeds (Persephone)

"Before you go," he said, "Eat these."
His palm was rough, black with soot,
and three rubies glittered there, perfect drops
of blood.

He would not meet my round eyes.
I assumed grief and accepted his gift; the hot winds
of deceit had never known my petaled face.

The earth opened above us,
and a golden arm came through
to draw me up.

I closed my mouth, bit down
and felt all my convictions
running down my throat.
I swallowed.