Romances

Poems

Lisa Ampleman

• Éditeur: LSU Press
• Année: 2020
• ISBN:
  9780807173077
• Sujet: Literature
• Sous-sujet: Women in Poetry

In this subtle and candid collection, Lisa Ampleman mixes contemporary elements and historical materials as she speaks back to the literary tradition of courtly love. Instead of bachelor knights bemoaning their allegedly cruel beloveds, Romances emphasizes the voices of female troubadours, along with those of historical figures such as Dante's wife, Petrarch's Laura, and Anne Boleyn. Ampleman also incorporates the work of the Italian Renaissance poet Gaspara Stampa, mentioned in Rilke's Duino Elegies, through a series of adaptations of her verse. Elsewhere, a contemporary sonnet sequence dedicated to Courtney Love shows the 1990s grunge rocker as subject, object, performer, and mother. As her poems reflect on popular romantic ideas about the past, the means by which elegies romanticize the dead, or the conventional romance of a happy marriage, Ampleman addresses a range of romantic entanglements: courtly and commonplace, sentimental and prosaic, toxic and mutual.

V

THE UNIMAGINED
AFTERWARD

Courtship

(a canzone)

In order to participate in my first

kiss, I rode to the fairgrounds

in a crowded back seat on someone’s lap, found

his hand as we walked past the ring toss, concert

pavilion, funnel-cake stand.

The wheel stood, blinking, past them. A sweaty man

opened the little gate for us. Inexpert

in the sacred rituals of going out,

I sat immobile, his arm behind me, hand

on my shoulder. And when the wheel’s movement stopped,

we were rocking on the top,

suspended above the carnival. He leaned

over, easy mouth, no tongue.

I thought I should have been kissed before fourteen

but here it was: Ferris wheel, evening, Chris Young.

But then, years of admiring at a distance,

seeing courtship in any kindness: sideways

glance meant undying devotion; the mildest praise

could have been a veiled advance.

I invented suitors, the silly inverse

of Penelope, unweaving my own hurt.

I blame Mr. Darcy, who withholds romance

until the novel’s end, plays

the bachelor, reserved, terse.

Of course, all along, he loved her, and every

amorous feeling was held in secrecy.

So, I too was a naïve heroine sniffing out

signs, waiting for a declaration. Even

indifference could be love to a devout

believer—a simple fondness could deepen.

Jaded, newly a doubter, though, when I met

you, I did not expect you to look at me

when you said something funny,

to ask for my number. And I, no coquette,

got yours too. Still, when you invited me to

a high-school musical, I had to redo

my internal tape-cassette

that played only sad songs in a minor key;

yes, no games, no ploys. I was being pursued.

Your students sang, “I don’t know how to love him,”

and one was Jesus Christ. When the lights went dim

after intermission, you leaned in and asked

if I wanted to get a drink afterward.

“Oh sure,” I whispered and grasped

your hand, surprised you. Overeager lovebird.

Then, more conventional courting: twinkling lights

at the nighttime zoo, gloved han...