Object Tension
Sorry, but in the Mahler I hear approach and retreat
further out even than language. I had to think of the music
entering the cone of a hibiscus at its widest moment,
knowing the flower's movement from most present to most gone
takes one day only, briefest resolution, like a heard note
or notes in any combination, however long. Brief, however deep,
like the buoyant silence after an applause.
In Donatello's figure of the aged Magdalene, the raised hands
are caught, held apart just so, one coming to the other
in the gesture for prayer, not touching, held there arguing
look, the soul is sensate, look how true things feel
when they're held.
Oh my God,
is grief more true than love? My father had a problem
with his hands, growths on the tendons drew his fingers into fists,
in years. God bless
the women passing needles to their girls, and hooks, any word
or flower can be embroidered with the x, anything
can last, sweet home sweet
home. I saw the face of a beaded evening bag,
minutest iridescent beads in rose and deeper rose,
and black. Someone stopped at the fringe,
the most decorative part of the decorative thing. She left
the threaded needle in. What grief
was it, as those hours spent readying the rare occasion stopped,
the bag not done but not undone? One bead
is a beautiful thing. We won't all die at once. Hold one bead
in your hand and keep from thinking of the next one if you can.
*
Hello Friends —
Today's poem is by Kathleen Peirce in her 1991 collection Mercy.
April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by emailing out my own
eclectic selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month. If you
wish to be unsubscribed from this Poem-a-Day email list at any time, please
reply to this email with a friendly unsubscribe request (preferably in heroic
couplet form). You may also request to add a consenting friend to the list, or
even nominate a poem.
To learn more about National Poetry Month, or to subscribe to a more
official-like Poem-a-Day list, visit www.poets.org.
Enjoy.
Ellen
P.S. Thanks to Kate Gapinski (wherever you are) for introducing me to this
poem.
Labels: NPM