[with 3 poems by Maria Rouphail]
A stroll down the beach at dusk – I was sixteen and she was almost. Would you call it our first date? I think we held hands. I know we didn’t kiss. Fifty-four years later the beach is still there, although not the pier we walked beneath, things the earth makes, less so human desires. This afternoon she is upstairs writing a letter and I have just cleaned up after lunch. Where have we been and where are we going? Well, in an hour we’ll take a walk beside the river.
Oh Wise One, long-married, specialist in domestic bliss and expert in the cultivation of love, impart your secrets! Are you kidding me? I’ve spent all morning making a list and it is exactly two items long: (ONE) Never Imagine You Know; and, (TWO) Never Quit Working to Find Out. Number One becomes apparent every time I assume or jump to a conclusion or utter as comfort some empty platitude (or, cardinal sin, just wasn’t paying attention). Number Two is the quick corollary as Number One’s immediate aftermath and the sooner engaged the better – not Working to Find Out usually invites conflagration.
Which is probably why love is such a necessary obsession of poetry. Infatuation is the hot minute of attraction; love is the cool hour of reflection. Poetry may germinate unseen underground as the temperature rises, but its sprout becomes visible when the creature is leaned back in chair, pen hovering listless over paper, the image of affection growing into clarity within the cool, reflective mind. And as I reflect further, I perceive that the seeds of most of my own love poems involve messing up with Number One and Two, above, only to be rescued and reconciled by the big sighs and small gods of forbearance and forgiveness.
Even now I imagine her at her desk, pen and paper, that elegant typographer’s script, those meticulous phrases – oh yes, I want to love her and I do.
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Annunciation
++++ (after Lynn Emmanuel)
+++++++ for Robert
He wants to be born.
So first he enters the dream of the woman
a doctor has told will never conceive.
He lets himself in through the gate
of her sleeping brain
during a hard snow
in late November.
He give himself eyes and hair like hers,
wraps himself in thick fleece, his fingers curving
over the hem, like a paws of a burrowing mammal.
She wakes with the dream of him still clinging,
I’ve birthed a back-eyed baby boy, I’ve carried him
up the aisle of the church to the baptismal font.
She goes to the window where slantwise
snow erases the houses across the street.
Only a curbside lamp on its iron stalk breaks through,
++++ a yellow clot in the boreal blur.
After she has laid aside the dream or forgotten it,
he enters her body sometime in January.
His arrival ignites engines and fires up turbines
with power unknown to her, making her whole
being a construction zone for the laying of foundations,
the framing of the many rooms of his evolving body.
In April, cornerstone and beam well set and level,
he shows her his brain and spine, a string of perfect lights
blinking the in the midnight sky of the sonogram.
The doctor is speechless. But the woman
rehearses the names of her beloved living and dead.
She will pick one of them.
She watches the tiny heart strobe in its cage.
Beacon of what is coming in October.
A swaddling blanket. A christening.
Maria Rouphail
from All the Way to China, Finishing Line Press, © 2022
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One line echoes in each poem I read in Maria Rouphail’s collection: Even then, / I could not say you did not love me. All the Way to China is a conversation between daughter and mother that spans decades, even generations. Many different speakers inhabit the poems, in many places and circumstances, but the voice of daughter/mother is audible in each, even if only as a whisper. Through harsh treatments, neglect, destructive choices, and pain that whisper of love still works to keep itself alive.
Love is work. In one of Fred Chappell’s novels, a youngster asks his old grandfather how is it possible that he and grandmother have managed to stay married for so many years. The old guy’s answer? “You don’t leave, and you don’t die.” In Maria’s poems, leaving is a frequent threat and dying too soon is a reality, but the magical work of poetry allows the dialogue to continue in spite of, maybe even because of, mortality. Telling a story allows it to discover its meaning. Telling a hard and painful story allows it to discover new meaning that just may open a door to healing.
The final two poems in the book bring meaning and healing forward and invited me to turn back to the first page and read the cycle again: Laudate Omnes (in praise of everything), and Mother and Daughter, Two Voices – III, Daughter. Yes, this collection is the work of love.
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Laudates Omnes
++++++(for Asher, young grandson)
Let’s talk
to the bees.
++++++Let’s say
Ladies, thank you
each and all
for coming this day
to the hyssop and bergamot.
Thank you
for diving
into the boggy throats
of pale blue sage.
Thank you
for letting sticky
pollen crawl
up your hairy legs.
Thank you
for the sweet spit of the hive.
Now to the trees turn and say,
Brothers,
I don’t know all your name
or what families you belong to,
but you over there,
tall and handsome with your spiky green:
if you and I were lone survivors
of a meteorological catastrophe,
I’d live with you.
I’d hole up under your branches.
Leaves and rain
would be our food and drink each day.
Now let’s say thanks and thanks and thanks
for the hive’s honeyed paradise,
for meadows of thick-maned mares
drowsing with their foals,
for bees, horses, and trees,
ocean, plains, and the sky.
Let’s say thanks
for the darkness between stars
which is not an emptiness,
but a rookery
where God dreams us.
And if we found ourselves
on a comet flying
beyond Pluto’s orbit,
even there we would
be not separate and alone,
but we would be
as now we are
in the heart of things,
the very heart.
Maria Rouphail
from All the Way to China, Finishing Line Press, © 2022
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Margie’s Daughter Talks Back
Wood. Shell. Bone. Buttons
in every size and color your mother saved for mending.
You, too, saved them,
in the round cookie tin on a high shelf.
Rainy days, and you’d take it down
and we’d remember
buttons from faded summer dresses,
buttons from coats returned from war,
buttons with bits of garments still clinging,
flesh and tendon of them. Red grosgrain,
shock of silver wedding silk,
fingers of fragrance still clinging.
Attar of rose and vetiver still clinging.
Heft and pour, the cascading clack and clatter
of buttons, like coins or pretend jewels.
You, too, loved them.
You and I together breathed the old secrets hanging
like the kitchen smells in that Bronx apartment.
Buttons from a man’s flannel before zippers were.
Your father’s, you said. And the blue bruise
your mother tried to hide with a lock of hair when
you, looking, and in your small voice, asked,
What happened to your eye, Mama?
as she reattached the right arm of your school sweater.
In the next room the bleats of a baby boy,
and a darkness you hoisted onto your twelve-year-old hip
and hauled through the rest of your life.
Hauled it into my life, too.
Would you believe me if I told you?
I have survived the winter.
Here is the faith I’ve entered with myself,
rule, rite, and rigor of it:
I will not belong to whatever happens to me.
It’s OK to say these things.
Maria Rouphail
from All the Way to China, Finishing Line Press, © 2022
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V E R S E ❦ I M A G E 