Part of Eve's Discussion (original)
by Marie Howe
by Marie Howe
It was like the moment when a bird
decides not to eat from your hand,
and flies, just before it flies, the moment the rivers seem to still
and stop because a storm is coming, but there is no storm, as when
a hundred starlings lift and bank together before they wheel and drop,
very much like the moment, driving on bad ice, when it occurs to you
your car could spin, just before it slowly begins to spin, like
the moment just before you forgot what it was you were about to say,
it was like that, and after that, it was still like that, only
all the time.
and flies, just before it flies, the moment the rivers seem to still
and stop because a storm is coming, but there is no storm, as when
a hundred starlings lift and bank together before they wheel and drop,
very much like the moment, driving on bad ice, when it occurs to you
your car could spin, just before it slowly begins to spin, like
the moment just before you forgot what it was you were about to say,
it was like that, and after that, it was still like that, only
all the time.
Part of Eve's Discussion (non-Howe version
1)
It was like the moment when a bird
decides not to eat from your hand, and
flies,
just before it flies, the moment
the rivers
seem to still and stop because a
storm is coming,
but there is no storm, as when a
hundred starlings
lift and bank together before they
wheel
and drop, very much like the
moment,
driving on bad ice, when it occurs
to you
your car could spin, just before it slowly begins
your car could spin, just before it slowly begins
to spin, like the moment just
before you forgot
what it was you were about to say, it
was
like that, and after that, it was
still
like that, only all the time.
Part of Eve's Discussion (non-Howe version 2)
It was like the moment
when a bird decides not to eat
from your hand,
and flies, just before it flies,
and flies, just before it flies,
the moment the rivers
seem to still and stop
because a storm is coming,
but there is no storm,
as when a hundred starlings
lift and bank together
before they wheel and drop,
very much like the moment,
very much like the moment,
driving on bad ice,
when it occurs to you
your car could spin, just before
your car could spin, just before
it slowly begins to spin,
like the moment just before
you forgot what it was
you were about to say,
it was like that, and after that,
it was like that, and after that,
it was still like that, only
all the time.
all the time.
Providing for Each Other (original version)
by Marie Howe
You are the one who takes it all
away.
For one moment, the leaning oaks
are gone, and the tall grass
where the small birds practice
their incoherence.
I know but for your fingers I would
lie awake
and what the barter is for their
articulate flight,
the agreement we make at night,
our guttural wail the only song for
the end of the world,
before we begin blinking on again,
blinking, blinking, when the room
comes back
and from the dark barn the lambs
cry.
Providing for Each Other (non-Howe version)
by Marie Howe
You are the one
who takes it
all away. For one moment,
the leaning oaks
are gone, and the tall grass
where the small birds practice
their incoherence. I know
but for your fingers
I would lie
awake and what the barter is
for their articulate flight,
the agreement
we make at night,
our guttural wail the only
song for the end of the world,
before we begin blinking
on again, blinking,
blinking, when the room
comes back and from
the dark barn the lambs cry.
Recovery (original version)
by Marie Howe
You have decided to live. This is
your fifth
day living. Hard to sleep. Harder
to eat,
the food thick on your tongue, as I
watch you,
my own mouth moving.
Is this how they felt after the
flood? The floor
a mess, the garden ruined,
the animals insufferable, cooped up
so long?
So much work to be done.
The sodden dresses. Houses to be
built.
Wood to be dried and driven and
stacked. Nails!
The muddy roses. So much muck
about. Hard walking.
And still a steady drizzle,
the sun like a morning moon, and
all of them grumpy
and looking at each other in that
new way.
We walk together, slowly, on this
your fifth day
and you, occasionally, glimmer with
a light
I’ve never seen before. It
frightens me,
this new muscle in you, flexing.
I had the crutches ready. The soup
simmering.
But now it is as we thought.
Can we endure it, the rain finally
stopped?
Recovery (non-Howe version #1)
by Marie Howe
You have decided to live. This is
your fifth day living. Hard to sleep. Harder to eat, the food thick on your
tongue, as I watch you, my own mouth moving. Is this how they felt after the
flood? The floor a mess, the garden ruined, the animals insufferable, cooped up
so long? So much work to be done. The sodden
dresses. Houses to be built. Wood to be dried and driven and stacked. Nails! The
muddy roses. So much muck about. Hard walking. And still a steady drizzle, the
sun like a morning moon, and all of them grumpy and looking at each other in
that new way. We walk together, slowly, on this your fifth day and you,
occasionally, glimmer with a light I’ve never seen before. It frightens me, this
new muscle in you, flexing. I had the crutches ready. The soup simmering. But
now it is as we thought. Can we endure it, the rain finally stopped?
Recovery (non-Howe version #2)
by Marie Howe
You have decided
to live.
This is your fifth day living. Hard
to sleep. Harder to eat,
the food
thick on your tongue,
as I watch you, my own mouth
moving.
Is this how they felt after the
flood?
The floor a mess, the garden
ruined, the animals
insufferable, cooped up so long?
So much work to be done. The sodden
dresses.
Houses to be built. Wood to be
dried
and driven and stacked.
Nails!
The muddy roses. So much muck
about.
Hard walking.
And still a steady drizzle,
the sun
like a morning moon,
and all of them grumpy
and looking at each other
in that new way.
We walk together, slowly, on this
your fifth day
and you, occasionally,
glimmer with a light I’ve never
seen before.
It frightens me,
this new muscle in you, flexing. I
had
the crutches ready. The soup
simmering.
But now it is
as we thought. Can we
endure it,
the rain finally stopped?
Assignment: try this out for yourself.
Choose one of the poems from The
Good Thief and implement your own spacing and line breaks. Don’t spend too much time thinking about it;
just follow your first impulse and see what you come up with.
Keeping Still (Janelle Lemish Alternation)
ReplyDeleteIf late at
night,
when watching the
moon,
you still
sometimes
get vertigo,
it’s understandable
that you wish
suddenly
and hard
for fences, for someone
to marry you.
Desiring
a working knowledge,
needing to know
some context by heart,
you might
accept anything:
the room without windows,
the far and frozen North,
or the prairie,
the prairie
even, if it means
that.
The long
wide
space and cold
dirt that will not
be seduced into hills,
and the dust, that
even after
you have kicked
and wept
and fallen on it pounding,
will not produce a tree.
It will allow you
to rise with certainty and
move with the relief
of necessary things
to the wash on the line,
to the small maple
you brought here
that must be tied
for the winter or die.
Even the prairie night,
blind with snow,
when no one comes,
and you
no longer look
to the mirror
but force your fingers to
the stitching
and produce a child
to help with the
lambing
and the carrying of water.
Although it might be
years
before you turn and stop,
startled
by the sweet and sudden
smell of sheets snapping
in the sun,
and the drunken lilac,
prairie purple,
blooming by the doorway,
because
you planted it.
Here is Dave's (he typed it on my computer in class) and then mine:
ReplyDeleteGuests
You
are at a cocktail party
talking to
someone who is
skewering a
small hot dog with a toothpick when
you
see the dead
peeking out of
the pantry, motioning to
you.
Your partner, looking up, just
Misses your raised eyebrows and the
small wave that has ended in
your hand
pushing through
your hair.
You say, “Suddenly, I have a headache,
I need
a glass of water.”
and head through the
pantry door
where the hostess emerges
carrying a tray and
announcing a game
of charades.
You
allow her to
pass, then step
through the empty
pantry to the kitchen
where the cook and three older
uncles are sitting
around the kitching
table talking.
They say,
”Sit down,
sit down,
the party’s in here.”
You
laugh, but
decline and
go to the kitchen door where
you
hear something
scratching to get in.
You
open it to admit
the cat that walks in
precise steps to
its bowl and eats.
Outside,
the snow is falling like
teeming arrows to the pavement and
piling up.
A sudden roar
Of laughter comes
from the living room.
Many people
are calling
your name.
They want
you
On their team.
The men at the table are rising.
You
join them, passing
by the cook and the cat
that never
looks up from its dinner.
-----------------------
What the Angels Left
At first, the scissors seemed perfectly harmless. They lay on the kitchen table in the blue light. Then I began to notice them all over the house, at night in the pantry, or filling up bowls in the cellar where there should have been apples. They appeared under rugs, lumpy places where one would usually settle before the fire, or suddenly shining in the sink at the bottom of soupy water. Once, I found a pair in the garden, stuck in turned dirt among the new bulbs, and one night, under my pillow, I felt something like a cool long tooth and pulled them out to lie next to me in the dark. Soon after that I began to collect them, filling boxes, old shopping bags, every suitcase that I owned. I grew slightly uncomfortable when company came. What if someone noticed them when looking for forks or replacing dried dishes? I long to throw them out, but how could I get rid of something that felt oddly like grace? It occurred to me finally that I was meant to use them, and I resisted a growing compulsion to cut my hair, although, in moments of great distraction, I thought it was my eyes they wanted, or my soft belly - exhausted, in winter, I laid them out on the lawn. The snow felt quite usual, without any apparent hesitation or discomfort. In spring, as I expected, they were gone. In their place, a slight metallic smell, and the dear muddy earth.
Very interesting to see how different brains reshape the same clay. Thanks for posting these!
ReplyDelete