The
sloth
Body very
hairy, tenacious of life. — Carl Linnaeus (1707-1774)
Two
centuries ago Linnaeus said "noise frightful, tears
pitiful" of you,
bungled
one. Arm over hairy arm you travel having no heels
to take to on your unsoled feet, no hole to
hide in, and no
way to fight.
Doomed
to the trees, "good food for many," your one safety
is in flight.
Today
the scarce and lonely sloth, obedient prisoner in spa
astonished
by perpetual pain looks askingly into my face
and
hangs by legs and arms to life inexorably upside down
under
branches in the zoo or in the subway under town.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the
museum
Small
and emptied woman you lie here a thousand years dead
your
hands on your diminished loins flat in this final bed
teeth jutting from your unwound head your
spiced bones
black and dried,
who knew
you and kissed you and kept you and wept when
you died;
died you
young had you grace? Risus sardonicus replied.
Then
quick I seized my husband's hand while he stared at
his bride.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It
rained last night
For John Logan
Nous n’írons plus aux bois,
les lauriers sont coupés
Glass
ponds astound the juicy grass the air is wild
with the
scents of thyme and fern and briny childhood
and the
glistening birds call clearly with rinsed voices,
the sky
is far and blue as a mariner's eye :
listen,
the greenness whistles …
O morning
startling still and secret as a child,
a blue
egg, as a moccasin in the wildwood –
O early day moving to afternoons of choices
I shall
go once more to these woods until I die
I know
that the laurels grow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lines to
a seagreen lover
For
Maurice English
My lover
never danced with me
Not
minuet nor sarabande
We
walked (embracing) on the sand
My lover
never swam with me
We waded
to our ankle bones
And
winced and shivered on the stones
My lover
never flew with me
We
stared at sea birds slicing space
And
cried What freedom Look what grace
I wish
my love had lain with me
Not on
the sand beside the sea
But
under my ailanthus tree
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cadenza
Conjure
away the blue and the dim and the dark cloths
I am no
longer in the night or in the half light
I want a
shout of white and an aria of fire
and a
paean of green and a cordcarillon
not
Cinderella's slippers not the Emperor's new cloth.
not the
skull behind the flower but the bone that is the rose
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gimboling
Nimble
as dolphins to
dive
leap and gimble, sleek, supple
as
ripples to slip round each other to
wander
and fondle on under and into
the
seeking and coupling and swarming of water
compliant
as sea-plants to bend with the tide
unfolding
and folding to frond and to flower
a
winding and twining to melt and to merge
to rock
upon billowing founder in surf
and a
fathom's down drowning before the sweet waking
the
floating ashore into sleep and to morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cowardice
The
amputated human hearts pulse in the great glass jars.
As moist
and wincing red as pigeon feet.
The jars
will never be unsealed, nor can the heart be joined,
healed,
to the breast. For in that vacuum, the fatal
void
between
the unreal and the real, between the brine and breast
the heart will burst And we, compassionate, cannot redeem
the prisoned hearts, nor save the crippled
men, the fear
-oppressed,
who only suffer love within the prism of a dream.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The widows’s yard
For Myra
"Snails
lead slow idyllic lives. . . “
The rose
and the laurel leaves
in the
raw young widow's yard
were
littered with silver. Hard
-ly a
leaf lacked the decimal scale
of the
self of a snail. Frail
in
friendship I observed with care
these
creatures (meaning to spare
the
widow's vulnerable eyes
the
hurting pity in my gaze).
Snails,
I said, are tender skinned.
Excess
in nature . . . sun rain wind
are
killers. To save themselves
snails
shrink to shelter in their shells
where
they wait safe and patient
until
the elements are gent
-ler. And
do they not have other foes?
the
widow asked. Turtles crows
foxes
rats, I replied, and canned
heat
that picnickers aband-
on. Also
parasites invade
their
flesh and alien eggs are laid
inside
their skins. Their mating
too is
perilous. The meeting
turns
their faces blue with bliss
and
consummation of this
absolute
embrace is so
extravagantly
slow
in
coming that love begun
at dawn
may end in fatal sun.
The
widow told me that her
husband
knew snails' ways and his gar-
den had
been Eden for them. He
said the
timid snail could lift three
times
his weight straight up and haul
a wagon
toy loaded with a whole
two
hundred times his body's burden.
Then as
we left the garden she said that at the first faint chill
the
first premonition of fall
the
snails go straight to earth .. . excrete
the lime
with which they then secrete
the
opening in their shells . . . and wait for spring.
It is
those little doors which sing,
she
said, when they are boiled.
She
smiled at me when I recoiled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The
accomplices
Must now
accomplish the division of remains.
Assassins
they will now be scrupulous
take
pains to be exact in the division of each part
(Let not
the question of the genitals impede the disposition of their singular dead)
Each
must be left with half a
head and half a heart a hand
for him
a hand for her a lung apiece
and an
iambic foot for each and then surcease.
As to
disposal of the parts his portion
will rot
up in the attic carried there
and then
forgot. His half the heart
plopped in
an Etruscan jar they bought in Tuscany
the rest
of his share he will lock in a trunk
her half
a heart she will pound in a mortar
and eat.
The rest of her share
will be
burned until charred black.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Conversation
at midnight with Oscar Williams
You said
the world has no identity
outside
of each single human entity.
I said,
wanting to keep the conversation light,
"The
island oak that falls and none hears smite?"
Then
you, not bothering to say "Of course,"
pursued
your theme with measured gentle force.
"World evil's a reflection of your
own,"
you
said, "yours, his, hers, mine, and each alone."
I
smiled, wooing the dialectic terror.
But
later, goose-fleshed, stared into my mirror.
Born
1915 in Newton, Massachusetts, poet and
actress Isabella Gardner was the cousin of poet Robert Lowell and the
great-niece of art collector Isabella Stewart Gardner. Educated at the Foxcroft
School in Virginia, Gardner studied acting at the Leighton Rollins School of
Acting and the Embassy School of Acting in London. After a period of
professional acting, Gardner moved to Chicago, where she served as an associate
editor of Poetry magazine from 1952 to 1956 under Karl Shapiro. She lived in
Chicago for 16 years, where she met her fourth husband, poet Allen Tate.
Gardner
used rhyme, innovative syntax, and received forms to craft poems charged with
lyricism and passion. She wrote of her own work: “If there is a theme with
which I am particularly concerned, it is the contemporary failure of love. I
don’t mean romantic love or sexual passion, but the love which is the specific
and particular recognition of one human being by another—the response by eye
and voice and touch of two solitudes. The democracy of universal
vulnerability.”
Gardner
published four volumes of poetry during her lifetime: Birthdays from the Ocean
(1955), The Looking Glass (1961), West of Childhood (1965), and That Was Then:
New and Selected Poems (1980). She received the inaugural New York State Walt
Whitman Citation of Merit for Poetry, and both The Looking Glass and That Was
Then were finalists for National Book Awards. BOA Editions, which presents an
annual Isabella Gardner Poetry Award, released Isabella Gardner: The Collected
Poems (2000) as part of their American Poets Continuum series. Marian Janssen
published a biography of the poet, Not at All What One Is Used To: The Life and
Times of Isabella Gardner (2010).
After
leaving Chicago, Gardner resided at the Chelsea Hotel in Manhattan and,
briefly, Ojai, California, where she died ( 1981). A selection of her papers is
housed at the Olin Library of Washington University in St. Louis.
photo of the titlepage of my copy of : Not at all what one is used to: the life and times of Isabella Gardner / Marian Janssen . - Columbia : University of Missouri Press, 2010
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Access to the
Isabella Gardner Papers at Washington University. Omeka
Reviews of the biography :
Not at
all what one is used to: the life and
times of Isabella Gardner. By Jacqueline Pope. Harvard Review, February 8, 2012.
The
other Isabella Gardner. By Alex Beam. Boston.com , December 21, 2010
Forgotten
poet. By Pamela Miller. Star Tribune , February
26, 2011
More biograpical info here : Encyclopedia.com
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