Here's another pair of "matching" poems by Linda Pastan and Elizabeth Spires, to go with the two poems I posted last night.
My Mother's Doll
--Elizabeth Spires
After she died, I found you slumped in the living room
where she kept you, a rag doll, tall as I was,
made years ago by my grandmother.
You stared straight ahead, your mouth
a thin unsmiling line, one fingerless hand
flopped across your chest. Dark secret keeper,
big sister in pain, you used to amuse us with your mood,
making perpetual despair look easy as you sat,
mute and gloomy as a cloud, listening to all that we said.
When I closed up her apartment, I propped you up
in the straightback chair but wondered later --
at home in my own bed -- if it was the right thing to do.
I imagined you sitting in darkness all winter,
the blinds drawn, only the dust to keep you company.
Did your heart beat faster when you heard the hum
of the refrigerator? When a letter fell through the mail slot?
Or did you lapse into a sleep deeper than my own,
cold, dark, profound, where winter passed in a dream
and you, in your solitude, were nothing, no one,
because she wasn't there to speak your name?
Coming back this summer, I open the blinds
and let light stream into the room.
Dust motes swirl without meaning in the air.
Outside the pear tree is in bloom,
but you don't turn your head.
I pick you up and hold you in my arms.
Then eye to eye, I waltz you around the room
to make my daughter laugh, my daughter
who barely knew my mother.
When we leave, I'll straighten your blue dress,
comb your mop of hair into a neat page boy.
Then I'll put you back into the chair until the next time
because I cannot imagine it empty,
cannot imagine this room without you.
The Answering Machine
--Linda Pastan
I call and hear your voice
on the answering machine
weeks after your death,
a fledgling ghost still longing
for human messages.
Shall I leave one, telling
how the fabric of our lives
has been ripped before
but that this sudden tear will not
be mended soon or easily?
In your emptying house, others
roll up rugs, pack books,
drink coffee at your antique table,
and listen to messages left
on a machine haunted
by the timbre of your voice,
more palpable than photographs
or fingerprints. On this first day
of this first fall without you,
ashamed and resisting
but compelled, I dial again
the number I know by heart,
thankful in a diminished world
for the accidental mercy of machines,
then listen and hang up.
bree
Thanks for posting such lovely poems. I liked the first two but I loved the second two. My eyes are still full.
Last night my roof blew off
Now I can see the stars
more clearly
Bree: I love the poems you have posted. I hadn't been able to get the first two out of my mind, and then you posted these. They touch home. I'm anxiously awaiting more.
bree
I too hope you have more!
PS
Today I started this years version of 'Will You Taste Some Irishness?' (an Irish poetry thread) all are invited.
http://www.able2know.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=4287&highlight=
Raggedy and jjorge,
I'm glad you liked the poems. Here's the last pair I'll post (at least one of which would have been appropriate for jjorge's "thoughts of mortality" thread). Since we're talking about living poets, I don't think it's fair to them to post more than will whet people's appetites to buy their books. (I'm glad you're continuing the tradition of the Irish poetry thread, jjorge. I'll see you over there before long.)
Potsy
--Linda Pastan
The cards that come each Christmas
bear signatures from another life.
I line them on the mantle in the kind of rows
we stood in for school pictures,
and the names are the same:
Lila so fleet of foot, the bobbles
on her socks like the wings
of Mercury as she ran; Rowena
playing potsy; Gerda with her braids
and budding irony -- girls
I've lost, except at Christmastime,
whose voices once bloomed daily
on the phone (their numbers fixed
like music in my mind: Tremont 2
and Endicott 9). Sometimes I think
we keep in touch each year
so we will recognize each other
in the life to come, when we leave
our womanly disguises behind
and circle back to the past,
the way we did playing potsy,
when we jumped from square
to square, ending
on square one where we began,
with daylight fading, though
we hardly noticed it, ignoring
our mothers who were calling us
to supper and our separate lives.
The Faces of Children
--Elizabeth Spires
Meeting old friends after a long time, we see
with surprise how they have changed, and must imagine,
despite the mirror's lies, that change is upon us, too.
Once, in our twenties, we thought we would never die.
Now, as one thoughtlessly shuffles a deck of cards,
we have run through half our lives.
The afternoon has vanished, the evening changing
us into four shadows mildly talking on a porch.
And as we talk, we listen to the children play
the games that we played once. In joy and terror,
they cry out in surprise as the seeker finds the one in hiding,
or, in fairytale tableau, each one is tapped and turned
to stone. The lawn is full of breathing statues who wait
to be changed back again, and we can do nothing but stand
to one side of our children's games, our children's lives.
We are the conjurors who take away all pain,
and we are the ones who cannot take away the pain at all.
They do not ask, as lately we have asked ourselves,
Who was I then? And what must I become?
Like newly minted coins, their faces catch
the evening's radiance. They are so sure of us,
more sure than we are of ourselves. Our children:
who gently push us toward the end of our own lives.
The future beckons brightly. They trust us to lead them there.
Thank you RaggedyAggie for mentioning Joan Baez and the song, Gabriel and Me. Although I admire Joan Baez very much, I've somehow never heard that song. (Still haven't, but now have read the lyrics a few times!) I liked the poem by Stephen Spender very much -- am also fond of Seascape poetry!
And Jjorge -- thank you for The Names of Horses. Sigh. So sad.
Bree -- I loved the doubled poems you found. How did you do that? Quite right to leave us wanting more (and needing to BUY live poets' offerings). I agree whole-heartedly!
Hiama -- thank you for posting the poem by Nathalie Stephens. Very interesting.
Julie Kopcke -- Post your favorites! Please!!
Horse poetry... there are some poems but they tend to be long! I don't know if I can really call this one poetry, though to me, it has the lyricism and rhythm of a poem.
HE SMELLETH THE BATTLE
Hast thou given the horse strength?
Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?
Canst though make him afraid as a grasshopper?
The glory of his nostrils is terrible.
He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength;
He goes on to meet the armed men.
He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted;
Neither turneth he back from the sword.
The quiver rattleth against him,
The glittering spear and the shield.
He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage;
Neither believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet.
He sayeth among the trumpets
Ha! Ha! and he smelleth the battle afar off,
the thunder of the captains,
And the shouting.
from The Book of Job 39:19-25 KJV
Here's another horse poem...
The Runaway
Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, "Whose colt?"
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head
And snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.
We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,
And we saw him, or thought we saw him dim and gray,
Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.
"I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.
He isn't winter-broken. It isn't play
With the little fellow at all. He's running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell him, 'Sakes,
It's only weather.' He'd think she didn't know!
Where is his mother? He can't be out alone."
And now he comes again with clatter of stone,
And mounts the wall again with whited eyes
And all his tail that isn't hair up straight.
He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.
"Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,
When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,
Ought to be told to come and take him in."
Robert Frost
Well, I now have several items to add to my shopping list. A larger folder for my new poetry collection and the two books of poetry Bree has called to our attention here. Thanks to all for such great contributions.
A shopping list of odes is well
And well it bodes indeed
For Raggedyaggie
Has her need
Fulfilled
And chilled
She sallies forth
To execute her literary deed
Hiama: what an unexpected pleasure
A poem here - just for me -
A place in the folder for added good measure
I shall reserve - most definitely.
Sorry, Piffka. But, Hiama's comment most deservedly warranted a polite response.
Raggedy-thanks
Piffka piffka forgive me do
It was not my intention to diss you
The thread herein is blessed indeed
With many wise words and they do lead
To thoughts most warm and tender too
You see its got to me - boo hoo
So please forgive my lack of etiquette
Have you ? Can you ? Forgive me yet ?
There is nothing to forgive!
I am not at all so miffed.
Instead, I'm pleased as our dear Aggie
That you're filling up her baggie
With fine lines & tenderness
Of your smart poetic bliss
And edifying shopping list.
It's better than a kiss!
Me thinks I need one, too.
Thank-you!
Indeed, a pleasure for us all!
Dear Babs, THANKS for the laugh! I love it... but, oh, wouldn't it be nearly as much fun to help him find and go into great detail about his requests. How far COULD you make this man go??? It boggles the mind. I will remember this though, in case I'm with you and you suddenly drop to the floor. I think I'll try to remember it would be wise to drop too, and help you find that precious item. We'll both laugh together.
BTW -- Jjorge is finishing up a month's worth of wonderful Irish poetry. PLEASE be sure to check it. That's where most of the poetry lovers have been this month. The poems he posted for today were just wonderful, but all of them have given us so much insight into the Irish sentiment, and you're welcome to post your favorites as well. Hope to see you there!
What makes so many of the Irish, so good at poetry writing?
Well, having been there the 