Poetry

Poets I was reading in 1996 — Yvonne Trainer, Karen Connelly, Michelangelo, Shakespeare, Eliot — with notes on why.

Poetry

Forward links in this page [Yvonne Trainer](#Yvonne Trainer) [Karen Connelly](#Karen Connelly) Michelangelo Shakespeare [T.S. Eliot](#T.S. Eliot)

Yvonne Trainer

Yvonne taught a poetry class I was in; since I am in part those people I surround myself with - how could I not help but like her work? To further that narcissis I also grew up in Saskatchewan. Yvonne has a prarie sparseness, stripping every poem down to its bare conveyance. I miss this person, these words, if only I had time to read more - think more. - AH

perhaps you remember that train as a whistle you heard ten miles away on the farm every Tuesday night

where are you now? in some city perhaps in a tiny apartment among skyscrapers and constant muffled noises

still some nights unable to sleep you hear it clear as lips to a blade of grass that whistle

echoes with the memory of stone thrown into water

suddenly all those stars those nights

tell me again about those trains in London and Holland the closeness of people transparent reflections of passengers in glass

you are the good son taking your mother home to a country you've never seen

her history and your own school-book history

how all those years and still she recognizes the path to the farm

though you've never been there you recognize it too a certain landmark a hill the way of light shadows

III

your mother 78 years old following her cousin of 90 up a narrow ladder to see the attic she played in 70 years ago "Good son you go behind"

not much there now bare walls an empty box nothing to speak of

you descend the ladder first your mother one hand against the wall one hand on your shoulder for support

the old man a lantern in his right hand on the wall his left hand's shadow locked in the shadow of your mother's shoulder

the three of you a chain of shadows inching downward

in my dream i pick flowers from the roadside and toss them to the conductor when the train passes

grandmother is on that train on her way from Manyberries to Regina on to Lone Rock Saskatchewan

now Grandmother stands by the lilac tree next to her childhood home she wears her hair in two shining braids she wears the long dress of her childhood

she stands entranced by a train whistling across prarie blowing dark clouds of smoke

in dreams i remember most not my grandmother but Great Aunt Lula

how she tried to hang herself in the barn when her doctor diagnosed heart trouble

how many trains passed before Grandmother found her cut her down.

Karen Connelly

This poem needs to be vocal, to hear this endless cornocopia of words falling from the mouth of such an (at the time) young girl; such eerie "presence" and delivery. Other poems I like for the words as well: white rounded bones, sinew, skin, muscle and blood are prevalant themes. (Let's see how she improves over the next 50 years.) - AH

Note that she said some inane things recently, which I found something of a sharp contrast to my culture, and my thoughts on the subject are included in the same link. But now as I get more and more exhausted of work, I don't know that I can necessarily disagree with the position she had proposed.

She arrives in a loose blue skirt

For all of us, the cynics, the thieves, for the penguin-clothed nuns shuffling patiently in the garden, for the mad gypsy in her rag-coat, who cries her eyes to the gleam of shattered sapphires for each one of us and for no one at all but herself

she has arrived.

We are bitter and small. Almost all of us have soured hearts, little sucked lemons left on the cutting stone. We are warped mirrors who lie against each other sharply, sharply, shuddering. We reflect each other's scars and call this love. What am I? I do not merit her arrival. Has she come for me?

She is already here, saying, No, you fool, snuff your poor metaphors, don't write it like that. Say,

hearts like lemons, fresh, brighter than the purest gold, and better-smelling

then: we touch all down each other's lengths like mirrors laid together, reflecting light.

She has no use for the muddy comfort of misery. She has never needed excuses. If you are bleeding, she laughs and says, How rich the colour is! How healty you are!

Yes, here she is, she has arrived: Spring has come yet again, in spite of us.

She is the lovely woman in the loose blue skirt, in white lace, dancing clouds and southern wind around us. She turns, spreads her voice of swallows and mourning doves over us like a pale sheet. Her breasts smell like apples, her mouth of wine, her strong white thighs like fresh bread. Her wrists are made of roses, her hair falls softer than dawn-mist.

She has the grace of grass lengthening green, effortlessly, grass that sees as cat's eyes see, through darkness, grass thick and fleshed enough to eat. I am jealous of the fat horses, the clumsy burros clicking their hooves on gravel. They nuzzle their silk noses in her free salads, in her flowers; they chew and chew, deeply pleased.

Spring comes, and Spain rolls over on her back, belly rabbit-soft. How ever did this miracle happen? If you did not live between these sunsets, you would not believe they could exist: the sun rains flowers, flowers tumble out of heaven's mouth, pale roses, lilacs, violets, orange blossoms. The dusks are fire: yet there you stand, in flame, and do not burn. Just darkness touches you, gently, like a warm and lonely body wanting only to kiss you to sleep.

Dazed lovers wander up the cliffs lazy as kites, arms looped loose around waists, over shoulders, eyes brimming ocean, hair tangled with sea-wind. They are, yes, honestly, in love.

They are drowning happily in each other's skins, pressed closer than barnacles, smiling. See the wet glimmer of their mouths.

You think, My God, I must have dreamt it, that people hurt each other, it was a nightmare, never true.

The lovers have been this gentle since their first morning. Their faces have always been open, plied like winded skies, like ripe and velvet flowers.

Yes, here she is, and we are still alive to see her dance past us in the paseo to watch her lean down among us like a silver-feathered swan. The folds of her skirt bruch our legs as she slips through fences and over stone walls, flicking awake emerald-eyed lizards tapping the coiled shells of snails.

She climbs up and sings at the top of her lungs from the tops of the trees. Among the invisible clouds of sparrows, her voice rises and swoops down

to everyone but especially to the stones and small children, who hear perfectly.

The frayed stray gypsy laughs at this music, estatic, dances in a swirl on the beach, strangely alone. But the little rocks and opal shells glisten their own rhymes beneath her leather feet, and the anxious choir of stars tremble with song.

Her lights on the sea slides to us in long sheer glitters, gold-embroidered cloth rolling off the earth's table. They speak to each other, Spring and the water. Listen to the sea chanting. Believe the spring whispering, yes, even the small words: those curled pink under mossy wood, those nestled in branches, receive the words, the ones folded silver and cool in the blades of rain, believe those words, Children and puppies cock their heads to listen, and opentheir mouths to swallow the moon.

The ugly gypsy is beautiful as she winds up the paseo, drunk. head flung back like a door to the sky. She smells like a wet mongrel, does not know her age, cannot read, but her hands are wide open. She catches all the words of the first showers. She catches them with filthy fingers, in a rotten comb of teeth, in a matted web of hair

but her eyes are two jewels, glistening blue, worth greeting this rain, worth the arrival of the Woman herself.

Michelangelo

Fascinating if only because of a live lived interupted. Often I feel like him, never having the time to pursue my interests for sake of my work. Although like him, I keep the two close together. - AH

Shakespeare

Yep, Shakespeare can turn a pretty verse. An interesting thing about this poem I have found is that if you connect-the-dots from each part of the body touched you get a spiral trajectory that can be used to memorize this poem much more easily than many others. - AH

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hair be wires, black wires grow upon her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes there is more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak; yet well I know That music has a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

T.S. Eliot

I haven't been able to understand much of T.S. Eliot, other of his stuff such as The Wasteland I never did 'get'. But this poem I like for the cadence. It strikes me that it has a kind of woe-is-me melodrama which is fun to tickle over as well. - AH

Let us go then, you and I When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question... Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?' Let us go and make our visit.

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the price; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous - Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old... I grow old... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black We have lingered in chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.