We call Night the privation of relish in the appetite for all things.
John of the Cross, quoted by Roland Barthes, Fragments d'un discours amoureux
She dreams of a soft boiled egg.
The inaudible tear the yellow flood the
pouring tender not quite flesh on
crusty bread. The tang of cheese. Of
sourdough. Sharp scent of torn basil leaf. Creamy avocado
plucked from the tree that shatters its fruit
on the kitchen window.
Every possibility is in front of us then.
Every--
Thousands of days
filled with sunshine. And the rushing
sea.
And the wind, cool
on the nape of the neck.
Strong coffee in the afternoon.
A girl in striped pants. The sensation
of sand
between
your toes.
How can it be afternoon?
So soon blue
.
She picks up her scarf.
Wait.
Don't go.
Not yet.
(This can't go on.
This--)
Not yet.
They sit on a grassy hill by the side of the road.
Cliffs tumble to the sea.
She pulls a bottle from the hamper,
breaks the crust of bread with her hands, her
red lips black, the
fading light.
Cool wind on the nape
of her neck.
She gathers her scarf.
(No. Who twisted
you;
who
so that) I'll be leaving now
(who twists)
her posture
(someone is
going
away)
Oh please,
linger.
A thousand afternoons of light five
thousand ten:
twenty-eight years of days of
sand between your toes
of cobble beaches and
(sucking sounds)
rocks
they tumble
(what we call night
what we call)
endless oncoming
(relish
what we call)
waves
Here is my scallop bed,
here is my island.
Come
dive with me.
We paddle to the island; we
stand in shallow water; we pluck
scallops, sucking out
flesh
(the inaudible tear the sudden
flood the
pouring)
salt bathes
her tongue,
the afternoon shimmers
glimmers, tumbles--
oh,
the failing
light.
Wait.
Don't (who has
who has
twisted
you around like
who has
)
Don't. Not yet. Not
(who
so that in part-
ing
)
While there is still
light (while those,
le
stelle) while those
stars still shine
still (lucevan
)
into
night
She
shines (seashells) she turns
(on the seashore) she
stops (seashells) she
lingers
she (seashells)
winds her scarf
she sings
(le
stelle) in
her sleep
Notes
Quotations are distortions of phrases from:
St. John of the Cross via Roland Barthes, Fragments d'un discours amoureux
Rilke's Eighth Duino Elegy, trans. Stephen Mitchell in The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, (New York: Vintage: 1984), 197 and
Puccini, E lucevan le stelle, sung by Beniamino Gigli, 1938
Photos are from this album: "Taylor Head Barachois," http://www.flickr.com/photos/karincope/sets/72157629294954786/
This poem was my response to an exercise I set my Strategic Fictions class. We read--and looked at--various love stories as models for our own writing. I asked them to think about the following questions:
Why, when we think of love and writing, do we so often think of poetry? Is it because poetry is a kind of
writing where not simply each word, but each beat, each syllable, each space
and line break count? Poetry (and
love) both call for precision it seems—and sometimes, though not always, an
economy of gesture. But perhaps we
think of poetry and love together too, because what we wish of each is a
delightful surprise of the ear.
And what do we reap? Often, too often, dissonance, boredom, waiting,
rhythms utterly out of step…We also tend to repeat clichés, and others’ words,
over and over. Is there a way, nevertheless, to make such suspensions, such repetitions, work?
I do not know if I have succeeded. But as I tell my students, what is most important is to try.
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