She Walks in Beauty: A Woman's Journey Through Poems (4 page)

AMY LOWELL

I put your leaves aside,

One by one:

The stiff, broad outer leaves;

The smaller ones,

Pleasant to touch, veined with purple;

The glazed inner leaves.

One by one

Parted you from your leaves,

Until you stood up like a white flower

Swaying slightly in the evening wind.

White flower,

Flower of wax, of jade, of unstreaked agate;

Flower with surfaces of ice,

With shadows faintly crimson.

Where in all the garden is there such a flower?

The stars crowd through the lilac leaves

To look at you.

The low moon brightens you with silver.

The bud is more than the calyx.

There is nothing to equal a white bud,

Of no color, and of all,

Burnished by moonlight,

Thrust upon by a softly-swinging wind.

JOHN DONNE

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,

Until I labour, I in labour lie.

The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,

Is tir'd with standing though he never fight.

Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glistering,

But a far fairer world incompassing.

Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,

That th'eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.

Unlace your self, for that harmonious chime,

Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.

Off with that happy busk, which I envy,

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.

Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,

As when from flowry meads th'hill's shadow steals.

Off with that wiry Coronet and show

The hairy diadem which on you doth grow:

Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread

In this love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed.

In such white robes, heaven's angels us'd to be

Receiv'd by men; thou angel bringst with thee

A heaven like Mahomet's paradise; and though

Ill spirits walk in white, we eas'ly know,

By this these angels from an evil sprite,

Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

Licence my roving hands, and let them go,

Before, behind, between, above, below.

O my America! my new-found-land,

My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann'd,

My mine of precious stones, my empery,

How blest am I in this discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.

Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,

As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth'd must be,

To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use

Are like Atlanta's balls, cast in men's views,

That when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,

His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.

Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made

For lay-men, are all women thus array'd;

Themselves are mystic books, which only we

(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)

Must see reveal'd. Then since that I may know;

As liberally, as to a midwife, show

Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,

Here is no penance, much less innocence.

To teach thee, I am naked first; why then

What needst thou have more covering than a man?

I am the rose of Sharon,

And the lily of the valleys.

As the lily among thorns,

So is my love among the daughters.

As the apple tree among the trees of the wood,

So is my beloved among the sons.

I sat down under his shadow with great delight,

And his fruit was sweet to my taste.

He brought me to the banqueting house,

And his banner over me was love.

Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples

For I am sick of love.

His left hand is under my head,

And his right hand doth embrace me.

I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem,

By the roes, and by the hinds of the field,

That ye stir not up, nor awake my love,

Till he please.

The voice of my beloved!

Behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains,

Skipping upon the hills.

My beloved is like a roe or a young hart.

Behold, he standeth behind our wall,

He looketh forth at the windows,

Showing himself through the lattice.

My beloved spake, and said unto me,

“Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.

For, lo, the winter is past,

The rain is over and gone;

The flowers appear on the earth;

The time of the singing of birds is come,

And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

The fig tree putteth forth her green figs,

And the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.

Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

“O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock,

In the secret places of the stairs,

Let me see thy countenance,

Let me hear thy voice;

For sweet is thy voice,

And thy countenance is comely.”

Take us the foxes,

The little foxes, that spoil the vines:

For our vines have tender grapes.

My beloved is mine, and I am his:

He feedeth among the lilies.

Until the day break, and the shadows flee away,

Turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe

Or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.

By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth:

I sought him, but I found him not.

I will rise now,

And go about the city in the streets,

And in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth:

I sought him, but I found him not.

The watchmen that go about the city found me:

To whom I said, “Saw ye him whom my soul loveth?”

It was but a little that I passed from them,

But I found him whom my soul loveth:

I held him, and would not let him go,

Until I had brought him into my mother's house,

And into the chamber of her that conceived me.

I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem,

By the roes, and by the hinds of the field,

That ye stir not up, nor awake my love,

Till he please.

WALLACE STEVENS

Light the first light of evening, as in a room

In which we rest and, for small reason, think

The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.

It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,

Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:

Within a single thing, a single shawl

Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,

A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.

We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,

A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.

Within its vital boundary, in the mind.

We say God and the imagination are one . . .

How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,

We make a dwelling in the evening air,

In which being there together is enough.

MARGARET ATWOOD

I would like to watch you sleeping,

which may not happen.

I would like to watch you,

sleeping. I would like to sleep

with you, to enter

your sleep as its smooth dark wave

slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent

wavering forest of bluegreen leaves

with its watery sun & three moons

towards the cave where you must descend,

towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver

branch, the small white flower, the one

word that will protect you

from the grief at the center

of your dream, from the grief

at the center. I would like to follow

you up the long stairway

again & become

the boat that would row you back

carefully, a flame

in two cupped hands

to where your body lies

beside me, and you enter

it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air

that inhabits you for a moment

only. I would like to be that unnoticed

& that necessary.

GALWAY KINNELL

For I can snore like a bullhorn

or play loud music

or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman

and Fergus will only sink deeper

into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,

but let there be that heavy breathing

or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house

and he will wrench himself awake

and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together,

after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,

familiar touch of the long-married,

and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens,

the neck opening so small he has to screw them on—

and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,

his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other

and smile

and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body—

this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,

sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,

this blessing love gives again into our arms.

ELIZABETH BISHOP

It is marvellous to wake up together

At the same minute; marvellous to hear

The rain begin suddenly all over the roof,

To feel the air clear

As if electricity had passed through it

From a black mesh of wires in the sky.

All over the roof the rain hisses,

And below, the light falling of kisses.

An electrical storm is coming or moving away;

It is the prickling air that wakes us up.

If lightning struck the house now, it would run

From the four blue china balls on top

Down the roof and down the rods all around us,

And we imagine dreamily

How the whole house caught in a bird-cage of lightning

Would be quite delightful rather than frightening;

And from the same simplified point of view

Of night and lying flat on one's back

All things might change equally easily,

Since always to warn us there must be these black

Electrical wires dangling. Without surprise

The world might change to something quite different,

As the air changes or the lightning comes without our blinking,

Change as our kisses are changing without our thinking.

ARTHUR SYMONS

The feverish room and that white bed,

The tumbled skirts upon a chair,

The novel flung half-open, where

Hat, hair-pins, puffs, and paints, are spread;

The mirror that has sucked your face

Into its secret deep of deeps,

And there mysteriously keeps

Forgotten memories of grace;

And you, half dressed and half awake,

Your slant eyes strangely watching me,

And I, who watch you drowsily,

With eyes that, having slept not, ache;

This (need one dread? nay, dare one hope?)

Will rise, a ghost of memory, if

Ever again my handkerchief

Is scented with White Heliotrope.

OSIP MANDELSTAM
Translated by W. S. Merwin

Through all of youth I was looking for you

without knowing what I was looking for

or what to call you I think I did not

even know I was looking how would I

have known you when I saw you as I did

time after time when you appeared to me

as you did naked offering yourself

entirely at that moment and you let

me breathe you touch you taste you knowing

no more than I did and only when I

began to think of losing you did I

recognize you when you were already

part memory part distance remaining

mine in the ways that I learn to miss you

from what we cannot hold the stars are made

G
IRLFRIENDS ARE THE WORST,”
said my son morosely, after learning that his high school sweetheart didn't want to get back together with him after the summer. “She won't talk to me, not even on the phone,” he said, shaking his head.

When I was his age, girls usually seemed to be the brokenhearted ones, chasing after some unavailable boy with hair down to his shoulders. Caught off guard by the idea that a teenage boy, rather than girl, would want to discuss a relationship and work through the issues, I quickly improvised some unconvincing maternal words of comfort. But we all go through the misery of breaking up. Even if we know a relationship isn't meant to last, it is still painful when it ends. Emily Dickinson puts it best when she writes, “Parting is all we know of heaven,/And all we need of hell.”

These poems explore different kinds of endings. In “Unfortunate Coincidence,” Dorothy Parker describes a relationship in which both parties know they are only pretending to be in love, whereas Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem “The Philosopher” was sent to me by a friend whose husband had been unfaithful.

My favorite metaphor for a past love affair is found in Edna St. Vincent Millay's two poems “Well, I Have Lost You” and Sonnet XLIII. In both, she compares being in love to summertime. In Sonnet XLIII she writes, “I only know that summer sang in me/A little while, that in me sings no more.” Like summer, love is full and abundant, and when it ends there is a sense of loss, but also the implicit knowledge that we will fall in love again when the time comes around.

After reading many poems about breaking up, it seems that male and female poets tend to focus on different aspects of the end of a relationship. I doubt women will be surprised that men write more often about the loss of face and the loss of power, while women tend to write about the loss of self. In her poem “On Monsieur's Departure,” even Queen Elizabeth I, who understood and exercised almost absolute power, is reduced to a pitiful female creature after she breaks up with a male lover.

The most extreme expression of the desire for revenge is seen in the legend of “The Eaten Heart.” The version here dates from a Middle English poem of the 1500s, but the legend appears in many cultures. The poem tells the story of a jealous husband who tricks his wife into eating her slain lover's heart and then tells her what she has done. After that, she kills herself. Even metaphorically, human relationships don't get much more twisted than that.

Hopefully, the world has become a little more civilized since then, and we can move through the stages of loss and grief that mark the end of a relationship in a more gradual and accepting way. Gwendolyn Brooks's poem, “when you have forgotten Sunday: the love story,” and Elizabeth Alexander's “The End” both describe relationships in which eventually even the memory fades away. Then, we can understand what we have learned and begin the search for love again.