memory & desire

Hidden Joy

Nothing is Lost
- by Noel Coward -

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of that wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

From Collected Verse edited by Graham Payn & Martin Tickner, Graywolf Press, 2000.  Electronic text via The Writer's Almanac

thank you for your gift

Thanks for Remembering Us
- by Dana Gioia

The flowers sent here by mistake,
signed with a name that no one knew,
are turning bad. What shall we do?
Our neighbor says they're not for her,
and no one has a birthday near.
We should thank someone for the blunder.
Is one of us having an affair?
At first we laugh, and then we wonder.

The iris was the first to die,
enshrouded in its sickly-sweet
and lingering perfume. The roses
fell one petal at a time,
and now the ferns are turning dry.
The room smells like a funeral,
but there they sit, too much at home,
accusing us of some small crime,
like love forgotten, and we can't
throw out a gift we've never owned.

from Daily Horoscope, 1986
Graywolf Press, St. Paul, Minn.

the cinnamon peeler's wife

The Cinnamon Peeler
- by Michael Ondaatje -

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you.  The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under the rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back.  This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in the water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

         this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume

                     and knew

           what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife.  Smell me.

the iceberg theory

The Iceberg Theory
- by Gerald Locklin -

  all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.
  you'd think romaine was descended from
  orpheus's laurel wreath,
  you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional
  benefits attributed to it by popeye,
  not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of
  veriaine and debussy.
  they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage
  just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.

  I guess the problem is
  it's just too common for them.
  It doesn't matter that it tastes good,
  has a satisfying crunchy texture,
  holds its freshness
  and has crevices for the dressing,
  whereas the darker, leafier varieties
  are often bitter, gritty, and flat.
  It just isn't different enough and
  it's too goddamn american.

  of course a critic has to criticize;
  a critic has to have something to say
  perhaps that's why literary critics
  purport to find interesting
  so much contemporary poetry
  that just bores the shit out of me.

  at any rate, I really enjoy a salad
  with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,
  the more the merrier,
  drenched in an Italian or roquefort dressing.
  and the poems I enjoy are those I don't have
  to pretend that I'm enjoying.