Zorba's Daughter

poems

Elisabeth Murawski

• Publisher: Utah State University Press
• Year: 2010
• Print ISBN: 9780874217964, 9780874217957
• eBook ISBN: 9780874217971
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Poetry
• Index: Literature

In Zorba's Daughter, the 14th volume in the Swenson Poetry Award series, Elisabeth Murawski speaks from a vital and unique sensibility, finding in ordinary images an opening to the passion of human courage in the face of deep existential pain and ambivalence. These poems awaken our joy as well as guilt, our hope as well as grief. They often evoke a sorrowful music, like the voice of mourning, but even in pointing to "the black holes of heaven," Murawski turns our gaze upward.

Zorba's Daughter was selected for the Swenson Award by the distinguished poet Grace Schulman. An icon of the literary scene, Schulman is acclaimed for her searching, highly original, lyric poetry, as well as for her teaching and her influential tenure as the poetry editor at The Nation, (1971-2006). Harold Bloom calls her "one of the permanent poets of her generation." Richard Howard says, "she is a torch."

THREE

METAPHYSICAL

For years now

I've turned to you in doubt,

like a charismatic

opening the Bible,

my finger drawn

to the exact word

where you'd speak to me

in confirmation,

or warning. Forgive me.

I haven't always

listened

when I've asked you, John Donne,

to undo the dark. Anoint

my forehead. Guide

my hand beyond pages

that you've left

to be my light. Bless

my squinting third eye.

LONG AFTER DARK AT THE CHURCH CARNIVAL

I have an itching palm to situate the stars,

to chart the cost and progress of a soul.

Maybe this is how a widow wants to feel

breaking the token clot of earth between

her fingertips. As if the power had left it.

The beach scene came right because we were

expectant, still full of hopes.

I am a child again, unable to explain

the hole I am digging. Who moans?

We bring to each other the same degree

of trust we bring to ourselves.

The hartebeest's horns are shaped like a lyre.

Do not tell me though I ask you

where strawberries grow on the side of a cliff.

Long after dark at the church carnival

I am praying, predictable as cat's-cradle.

I keep looking up the moon's sleeve.

There is a sharp lull into new feeling

being thrown back again into the sea.

ON HEARING A LECTURE ON STARS

There are too many of them.

They shrink the earth

to a town. I am turned

into an ant

on the sidewalk, afraid

of a shoe. They destroy

my God, too. Who

is left to hear, to count

every hair,

every sparrow?

The houselights flood.

outside, the sun's

a hollow hand

conning my skin

back to life. I scan

the sky, no stars

in sight. Door to door

I carry old wines

in a suitcase,

my window on Sinai

smashed by an astronomer.

THE CHAPEL THAT TEMPTED O'KEEFFE TO BECOME A CATHOLIC

A white linen throw, homely

as a blank canvas,

tops the square altar stone

large enough to pin down

Isaac. Did the artist rejoice

in the weave? Did the woman

recall the child she lived

without? Two wrought iron

candle-holders

curve like horns of doubt

on the lectern made of driftwood.

Raindrops like fingertips

tap in code. No hiding here

from the wilderness.

Christ dies again

in a sky-blue loin cloth.

Unstained, the windows weep

and blur the red hills.

AT THE SMALLEST NATIONAL CEMETERY, BALLS BLUFF, VA

The sun pales,

all of its blood let.

The air is thick with devil's

darning needles. Tops

of trees whisper

victory / surrender….

We can almost hear

sharp cracks of rifles,

human animal cries,

the whinnies of drowning horses.

PLANES

An hour ago, alive

but losing power,

t...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication Page
• Contents
• Foreword by Grace Schulman
• One
• Two
• Three
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• The May Swenson Poetry Award