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Almos t an Eleg y
New and Later Selected Poems
LINDA PASTAN
For Josephine
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following periodicals in which many of the poems in “New Poems” first appeared:
Beltway Poetry Quarterly; Catamaran; Fledgling Rag; The Gettysburg Review; Jewish Journal; Moment;
New Letters; The Paris Review; Plume; Poet Lore; Salmagundi; South Florida Poetry Journal; Southern
Poetry Review; The Southampton Review; Virginia Quarterly Review; and Women’s Review of Books.
A stanza of “Summer Triptych” was featured in Poem-A-Day, by the Academy of American Poets.
Contents
New Poems
———
Memory of a Bird
On the Sill of the World
Sting
For Miriam, Who Hears Voices
A Different Kind of April: For Joan
I Hold My Breath
Truce
Kristallnacht
Instruction
Almost an Elegy: For Tony Hoagland
Class Notes
The Tourist
Squint,
tulips in a glass vase
Plunder: To a Young Friend
Ode to My Car Key
Cataracts
Apartment Life
The Clouds
The Quarry, Pontoise
Interior, Woman at the Window
Anonymous
Rereading Anna Karenina for the Fifth Time
Crimes
How Far Would You Trust Your Art?
Mirage
The Collected Poems
Summer Triptych
Lightning
At the Winery
Autumn: For Jane Kenyon
Away
The Future
From The Last Uncle (2002)
———
Women on the Shore
Practicing
Tears
Grace
The Cossacks: For F
Potsy
Bess
Armonk
The Last Uncle
Husbandry
Ghiaccio
The Death of the Bee
From Queen of a Rainy Country (2006)
———
A Tourist at Ellis Island
Maiden Name
Parting the Waters
I Married You
50 Years
Firing the Muse
Rereading Frost
Heaven
Geography
Leaving the Island
Death Is Intended
What We Are Capable Of
Why are your poems so dark?
A Rainy Country
From Traveling Light (2011)
———
The Burglary
Bread
March
Lilacs
Eve on Her Deathbed
Years After the Garden
Cows
Q and A
On Seeing an Old Photograph
Ash
Silence
In the Forest
Somewhere in the World
On the Steps of the Jefferson Memorial
The Ordinary
Flight
Traveling Light
From Insomnia (2015)
———
Insomnia: 3 AM
Consider the Space Between Stars
Late In October
In the Orchard
First Snow
The Gardener
After the Snow
Edward Hopper, Untitled
Adam and Eve
fireflies
Imaginary Conversation
In the Happo-En Garden, Tokyo
River Pig
Ship’s Clock
At Maho Bay: For Jon
Ah, friend
Last Rites
Musings Before Sleep
From A Dog Runs Through It (2018)
———
The Great Dog of Night / 111
The New Dog
Domestic Animals
In the Walled Garden
I Am Learning to Abandon the World: For M
McGuffey’s First Eclectic Reader
Pluto
Argos
The Animals
Old Joke
Envoi
Almost
an
Elegy
New
Poems
MEMORY OF A BIRD
Paul Klee, watercolor and pencil on paper
What is left is a beak,
a wing,
a sense of feathers,
the rest lost
in a pointillist blur of tiny
rectangles.
The bird has flown,
leaving behind
an absence.
This is the very
essence
of flight—a bird
so swift
that only memory
can capture it.
ON THE SILL OF THE WORLD
On one wing, a quarter moon has moved across
the dark sky into morning,
and as I watch, a thousand leaves fly by,
loosed from their autumn trees.
So many wings: moths in their somber garments,
houseflies, the sound and shadow of a jet.
A tide of geese honks its long way south,
and one small girl attaching angel wings
to her nightgown
flits around the house.
Now a new generation of birds
is landing on the sill. I name them
as Adam did: Kingfisher . . . Crow . . .
for they are the same birds
immortal in their feathers
and primed for flight.
STING
A bee stung the palm
of your right hand,
or did you touch a nettle?
There was a swelling,
the burn of pain—
a poisoned flower blooming
in the flesh—
and neither ice
nor baking soda helped.
You carried it around—
right hand in left,
as if it belonged to somebody else,
and you were angry—
not at the possible bee whose buzz
was all you knew of it,
not at the nettle, hidden scourge
of the summer garden.
It was the wound itself that angered you,
an early soldier in the army of afflictions
waiting for us, even
in the innocent grass.
FOR MIRIAM, WHO HEARS VOICES
If the voices are there
you can’t ignore them,
whether they come up through the floorboards
on a conduit of music
or in a rattle of words that make sounds
but no sense.
They can be messages from the sky
in the form of rain at the window, or in the cold
silent statements of snow.
Sometimes it’s the dead talking,
and there is comfort in that
like listening to your parents in the next room,
and perhaps it’s the same parents still talking
years after they’ve gone.
If you’re lucky, the vowels
you hear are shaped like sleep—
simple cries from the thicket
of your dreams. You lie in bed.
If the voices are there, you listen.
A DIFFERENT KIND OF APRIL: FOR JOAN
This morning winter died—
its stinging winds blown out,
its snowflakes melted
even before they formed,
like children already named
but never conceived;
and summer began with thunder
bullying.
Heat like a hand presses down
on the heart.
No spring at all this year,
only a memory of green emerging,
of crocuses and forsythia. Of you
alive, walking
with me, mocking
my moody complaints about the weather.
I HOLD MY BREATH
1.
I keep calling up Weather to ask
if it’s going to rain, though I’m standing
at the window and can see
the staccato drops already falling.
We were to meet only if the day was fine.
And so I call again, hoping that
whoever’s in charge of the weather
can be made to change their plan.
2.
I hold my breath at every stop light,
and if I don’t breathe before it changes
I’ll have good luck all day.
3.
I think of a child kneeling beside his bed,
blessing his mother, his father;
then blessing the bicycle, the dog,
the sailboat he solemnly asks for.
4.
At nine my father was told by the rabbi
that if he kissed a crucifix, he’d die.
He made one out of the live branches
of a tenement tree, stripping the greening leaves,
and he kissed it, frightened but refusing
what he’d been told. He lived
to watch me take charge of the weather.
TRUCE
This is for my surgeon father at last
whom I’ve desecrated in poem after poem
for punishing me with silence, for caring too much
about the exact degree of love and respect
my adolescent self let trickle down to him.
Who in one of his many depressions painted
still life after still life (our apartment rank
with brushes and turpentine and rotting vegetables)
painting himself back to sanity.
My father knew “Evangeline” by heart
and studded his letters to me with scraps
of poetry, though he never took note of mine.
He made up bedtime stories that always ended with
“ and then there was an explosion . . .” but
I didn’t inherit his gift for plot. His patients
called him charismatic (his doctor jokes, the airplanes
he made out of tongue depressors for the children)
and my friends turned up at his funeral, saying
they’d always wanted a father like mine.
How well he hid the archeology of grief.
His extended family had disappeared in Poland,
though he never spoke of them, and he never
stopped grieving for my stillborn brother. He badly
wanted a son, and I was just a girl.
Is there somewhere in the afterlife where he can read
what I write about him? Maybe he’d acknowledge at last
how alike we were in holding grudges;
in loving and caring too much; in somehow
painting ourselves, with brush or pen,
back to the kind of fragile truce we could live with.
KRISTALLNACHT
was the word I heard
my parents whisper behind
closed doors. And I pictured
the world under a sudden
enchantment of ice, each tree limb
braceleted in crystal, each lamppost,
each windshield glazed
and electrically gleaming,
the very air wincing with light.
And the only sound would be
a myriad tinkling,
as of a thousand thousand
miniature wind chimes.
The treacherous beauty of
New and Later Selected Poems
LINDA PASTAN
For Josephine
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following periodicals in which many of the poems in “New Poems” first appeared:
Beltway Poetry Quarterly; Catamaran; Fledgling Rag; The Gettysburg Review; Jewish Journal; Moment;
New Letters; The Paris Review; Plume; Poet Lore; Salmagundi; South Florida Poetry Journal; Southern
Poetry Review; The Southampton Review; Virginia Quarterly Review; and Women’s Review of Books.
A stanza of “Summer Triptych” was featured in Poem-A-Day, by the Academy of American Poets.
Contents
New Poems
———
Memory of a Bird
On the Sill of the World
Sting
For Miriam, Who Hears Voices
A Different Kind of April: For Joan
I Hold My Breath
Truce
Kristallnacht
Instruction
Almost an Elegy: For Tony Hoagland
Class Notes
The Tourist
Squint,
tulips in a glass vase
Plunder: To a Young Friend
Ode to My Car Key
Cataracts
Apartment Life
The Clouds
The Quarry, Pontoise
Interior, Woman at the Window
Anonymous
Rereading Anna Karenina for the Fifth Time
Crimes
How Far Would You Trust Your Art?
Mirage
The Collected Poems
Summer Triptych
Lightning
At the Winery
Autumn: For Jane Kenyon
Away
The Future
From The Last Uncle (2002)
———
Women on the Shore
Practicing
Tears
Grace
The Cossacks: For F
Potsy
Bess
Armonk
The Last Uncle
Husbandry
Ghiaccio
The Death of the Bee
From Queen of a Rainy Country (2006)
———
A Tourist at Ellis Island
Maiden Name
Parting the Waters
I Married You
50 Years
Firing the Muse
Rereading Frost
Heaven
Geography
Leaving the Island
Death Is Intended
What We Are Capable Of
Why are your poems so dark?
A Rainy Country
From Traveling Light (2011)
———
The Burglary
Bread
March
Lilacs
Eve on Her Deathbed
Years After the Garden
Cows
Q and A
On Seeing an Old Photograph
Ash
Silence
In the Forest
Somewhere in the World
On the Steps of the Jefferson Memorial
The Ordinary
Flight
Traveling Light
From Insomnia (2015)
———
Insomnia: 3 AM
Consider the Space Between Stars
Late In October
In the Orchard
First Snow
The Gardener
After the Snow
Edward Hopper, Untitled
Adam and Eve
fireflies
Imaginary Conversation
In the Happo-En Garden, Tokyo
River Pig
Ship’s Clock
At Maho Bay: For Jon
Ah, friend
Last Rites
Musings Before Sleep
From A Dog Runs Through It (2018)
———
The Great Dog of Night / 111
The New Dog
Domestic Animals
In the Walled Garden
I Am Learning to Abandon the World: For M
McGuffey’s First Eclectic Reader
Pluto
Argos
The Animals
Old Joke
Envoi
Almost
an
Elegy
New
Poems
MEMORY OF A BIRD
Paul Klee, watercolor and pencil on paper
What is left is a beak,
a wing,
a sense of feathers,
the rest lost
in a pointillist blur of tiny
rectangles.
The bird has flown,
leaving behind
an absence.
This is the very
essence
of flight—a bird
so swift
that only memory
can capture it.
ON THE SILL OF THE WORLD
On one wing, a quarter moon has moved across
the dark sky into morning,
and as I watch, a thousand leaves fly by,
loosed from their autumn trees.
So many wings: moths in their somber garments,
houseflies, the sound and shadow of a jet.
A tide of geese honks its long way south,
and one small girl attaching angel wings
to her nightgown
flits around the house.
Now a new generation of birds
is landing on the sill. I name them
as Adam did: Kingfisher . . . Crow . . .
for they are the same birds
immortal in their feathers
and primed for flight.
STING
A bee stung the palm
of your right hand,
or did you touch a nettle?
There was a swelling,
the burn of pain—
a poisoned flower blooming
in the flesh—
and neither ice
nor baking soda helped.
You carried it around—
right hand in left,
as if it belonged to somebody else,
and you were angry—
not at the possible bee whose buzz
was all you knew of it,
not at the nettle, hidden scourge
of the summer garden.
It was the wound itself that angered you,
an early soldier in the army of afflictions
waiting for us, even
in the innocent grass.
FOR MIRIAM, WHO HEARS VOICES
If the voices are there
you can’t ignore them,
whether they come up through the floorboards
on a conduit of music
or in a rattle of words that make sounds
but no sense.
They can be messages from the sky
in the form of rain at the window, or in the cold
silent statements of snow.
Sometimes it’s the dead talking,
and there is comfort in that
like listening to your parents in the next room,
and perhaps it’s the same parents still talking
years after they’ve gone.
If you’re lucky, the vowels
you hear are shaped like sleep—
simple cries from the thicket
of your dreams. You lie in bed.
If the voices are there, you listen.
A DIFFERENT KIND OF APRIL: FOR JOAN
This morning winter died—
its stinging winds blown out,
its snowflakes melted
even before they formed,
like children already named
but never conceived;
and summer began with thunder
bullying.
Heat like a hand presses down
on the heart.
No spring at all this year,
only a memory of green emerging,
of crocuses and forsythia. Of you
alive, walking
with me, mocking
my moody complaints about the weather.
I HOLD MY BREATH
1.
I keep calling up Weather to ask
if it’s going to rain, though I’m standing
at the window and can see
the staccato drops already falling.
We were to meet only if the day was fine.
And so I call again, hoping that
whoever’s in charge of the weather
can be made to change their plan.
2.
I hold my breath at every stop light,
and if I don’t breathe before it changes
I’ll have good luck all day.
3.
I think of a child kneeling beside his bed,
blessing his mother, his father;
then blessing the bicycle, the dog,
the sailboat he solemnly asks for.
4.
At nine my father was told by the rabbi
that if he kissed a crucifix, he’d die.
He made one out of the live branches
of a tenement tree, stripping the greening leaves,
and he kissed it, frightened but refusing
what he’d been told. He lived
to watch me take charge of the weather.
TRUCE
This is for my surgeon father at last
whom I’ve desecrated in poem after poem
for punishing me with silence, for caring too much
about the exact degree of love and respect
my adolescent self let trickle down to him.
Who in one of his many depressions painted
still life after still life (our apartment rank
with brushes and turpentine and rotting vegetables)
painting himself back to sanity.
My father knew “Evangeline” by heart
and studded his letters to me with scraps
of poetry, though he never took note of mine.
He made up bedtime stories that always ended with
“ and then there was an explosion . . .” but
I didn’t inherit his gift for plot. His patients
called him charismatic (his doctor jokes, the airplanes
he made out of tongue depressors for the children)
and my friends turned up at his funeral, saying
they’d always wanted a father like mine.
How well he hid the archeology of grief.
His extended family had disappeared in Poland,
though he never spoke of them, and he never
stopped grieving for my stillborn brother. He badly
wanted a son, and I was just a girl.
Is there somewhere in the afterlife where he can read
what I write about him? Maybe he’d acknowledge at last
how alike we were in holding grudges;
in loving and caring too much; in somehow
painting ourselves, with brush or pen,
back to the kind of fragile truce we could live with.
KRISTALLNACHT
was the word I heard
my parents whisper behind
closed doors. And I pictured
the world under a sudden
enchantment of ice, each tree limb
braceleted in crystal, each lamppost,
each windshield glazed
and electrically gleaming,
the very air wincing with light.
And the only sound would be
a myriad tinkling,
as of a thousand thousand
miniature wind chimes.
The treacherous beauty of
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