01-18-2019, 12:49 AM
For a Daphne
"You have taken the conceits of poets quite seriously
and fashioned for yourself a Laura or a Beatrice out of
an ordinary person of the present century . . . "
Gerard de Nerval
How easy it is
to hold glory up to the light,
never a graceless motion,
or a cough or sigh out of place.
What burning man can contend
with the wonders of this earth?
For when we stand eclipsed,
she burns the more.
Fire could swim in the lake of her chest
and be refreshed
in the cool of the day.
But what is a simple man to do,
knowing he can't swim,
when approached by a flame
that should kill all fears?
Her nature caught up
in the place, the roving piedmont
around us, through cities
and surrounding counties. How sober I've been
for her not to know
of those great, enormous feelings.
Details fill notebooks of imaginary walks
or drives on dark interstates crowned with forests;
telling of that ghostly cowboy seen
walking once, and a couple things just made up
to get her in the mood
and share in my personal folklore.
I see she sees things too.
But how caught up I am in my own thoughts
even to talk,
or for any of this to be true.
Some women are too good even for dreams,
and I awake exhausted with the effort.
Who says a man creates his own infatuations?
What choice is there? Does a tree slap me
in the face for evoking its mythical roots?
History isn't in the heart, it's in the head;
life is the ever present,
emotions in the loins
and the spirit of the land.
Our brains make cheap motels
out of destinous mountains.
There is no sense of sadness in the way she moves,
but her eyes are human.
Still startled by strangeness
with her lips curved in joy,
they put all further sorrows to rest
before they happen.
There's no foliage warmer than the leaves of summer
grown luscious and darkly bright
by mid autumn without having fallen.
Sharing her delight gives more life than the sun.
When I hear the train at night,
by my dwindling candle I imagine
the broken bridge between my home and Eden.
And soon even she'll be far from the eponymous garden
where I pluck my laurels,
and the river that flows between us
in glimmering reams of change.
The river of morning still brings her to town,
but how long, like tired workers,
passing unknown truckers along the highway,
can we blend in the same waters, the same atmosphere,
the same auras?—How long have I been self-conscious
of that stray arrow of age and time?
To me they never fade.
"You have taken the conceits of poets quite seriously
and fashioned for yourself a Laura or a Beatrice out of
an ordinary person of the present century . . . "
Gerard de Nerval
How easy it is
to hold glory up to the light,
never a graceless motion,
or a cough or sigh out of place.
What burning man can contend
with the wonders of this earth?
For when we stand eclipsed,
she burns the more.
Fire could swim in the lake of her chest
and be refreshed
in the cool of the day.
But what is a simple man to do,
knowing he can't swim,
when approached by a flame
that should kill all fears?
Her nature caught up
in the place, the roving piedmont
around us, through cities
and surrounding counties. How sober I've been
for her not to know
of those great, enormous feelings.
Details fill notebooks of imaginary walks
or drives on dark interstates crowned with forests;
telling of that ghostly cowboy seen
walking once, and a couple things just made up
to get her in the mood
and share in my personal folklore.
I see she sees things too.
But how caught up I am in my own thoughts
even to talk,
or for any of this to be true.
Some women are too good even for dreams,
and I awake exhausted with the effort.
Who says a man creates his own infatuations?
What choice is there? Does a tree slap me
in the face for evoking its mythical roots?
History isn't in the heart, it's in the head;
life is the ever present,
emotions in the loins
and the spirit of the land.
Our brains make cheap motels
out of destinous mountains.
There is no sense of sadness in the way she moves,
but her eyes are human.
Still startled by strangeness
with her lips curved in joy,
they put all further sorrows to rest
before they happen.
There's no foliage warmer than the leaves of summer
grown luscious and darkly bright
by mid autumn without having fallen.
Sharing her delight gives more life than the sun.
When I hear the train at night,
by my dwindling candle I imagine
the broken bridge between my home and Eden.
And soon even she'll be far from the eponymous garden
where I pluck my laurels,
and the river that flows between us
in glimmering reams of change.
The river of morning still brings her to town,
but how long, like tired workers,
passing unknown truckers along the highway,
can we blend in the same waters, the same atmosphere,
the same auras?—How long have I been self-conscious
of that stray arrow of age and time?
To me they never fade.