on the occasion of visiting Audenâs grave
somehow I donât expect sighing evergreens
or cruel Aprilâs birds tuning up their notes
or the autobahnâs whine beyond the churchâs
sweet-cream-pastry-coloured plaster walls
though I recognize the iron cross and plaque
labelling the deceased as poet and man of letters
and somehow the ivyâs dense entanglement
surprises me as do wilting winter pansies
on top of the small rectangle of the plot itself
(how can it hold such long, grand bones?)
and a two-pence copper coin lying atop moss
that says he is loved by someone from home
and those admirers from other lands (like me)
know better than to swipe this little token
even as I feel its melancholic foreignness
enter my thumb and vibrate with an eagerness
to claim the wrinkled poet as my own
yes, I know how men slide daily under earth
and what remains of them upside stays briefly
before it too leaves like wind or highway noise
while calamity clots nearby, one hamlet away
even as that woman in her red coat crosses
a green field, happy black terrier leaping up
to her hand, as a crow settles his wings on pale
winter stubble, and an old man in a crushed hat
posts a letter at a yellow box â and may a reply
come sooner than he expects from a grandson
he loves to praise as only a free man can praise
but likely itâs a bill, what must be paid
in a certain period before penalties apply
and debts accrue and demands mount
and a day passes in which he fails to relish
this heaven-side of grass, neglects the glory
in birdsong! â and in men whose songs rise
so smoothly from their natures we forget
how both ease and fine form came to pass
out of a morningâs work in the low house
with green decorative siding not far from
his grave, a domicile easy to pass by without
a murmur of wonder â though the German words
under his photo leave me squinting, envious
of those who know more than I, who knew him
as a neighbour, summer visitor to Kirchstetten
on a back road bordered by willows ready to bud
from soggy forest floor with leaves faint for now
in Duino
narrow roads off the autobahn
offer tour buses no place to park
should passengers want
to see where Rilke slept
Princess della Torre e Tassoâs gilded
family portraits of past aristocrats
staring down, uncomprehending
I step onto a balcony overlooking
the Gulf of Trieste, notice no angels
though commercial oyster beds
at the mouth of the Isonzo River
provide a symmetry the poet
may have admired from his cliff path
I am thinking a trace of gravitas
might remain on this stone
balustrade he may have touched
(or pounded) and where
in three languages is written
on its limestone lip the command
not to lean over, which I heed
Apollo beams down to warm
my thoughts again, so once more
I wonder how the poet saw from here
âwind full of cosmic spaceâ
what remains for me white cliffs
and blue sea, curve of the gulf
and sunlight calling one wave
to appear just as another dips and
disappears without any âendlessly
anxious handsâ framing
what cannot so easily pass away
Nicholas Lanier, 1628
, by Anton van Dyck
his long nose and wary look, cocked
right elbow, left hand casual on a rapier
poking back from the sparkle on its hilt
and the brightest mark? his wide forehead
below an abrupt line where brown curls
shine and announce pride, headâs width
of blue sky softly clouded, sun-streak burning
above a background of fake ruins
and the focus? Lanierâs lips, straight and stern
ready to sneer, yet showing beneath refinement
how many times he has been bruised
(note the hint of green at the left temple)
hairs on his red moustache curving up above
his pointed beard ready and set to quiver
he sat seven days for van Dyck, and both
clearly relished that wide swath of rich cape
tumbling down from his left and out of which
bulge his arms in red-striped fabric
such a
Michelle Betham
Peter Handke
Cynthia Eden
Patrick Horne
Steven R. Burke
Nicola May
Shana Galen
Andrew Lane
Peggy Dulle
Elin Hilderbrand