Home Deep Blue

Jean Valentine

• Éditeur: Alice James Books
• Année: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781948579773
• Sujet: Literature
• Sous-sujet: American Poetry

Eighteen new poems extend the trajectory of Jean Valentine’s work. Included are selections from her four previous books: Dream Barker, Pilgrims, Ordinary Things, and The Messenger. Her themes of pilgrimage, time, and human connection are revealed in intense meditations.

New Poems

Willi, Home

In memory

Last night, just before sleep, this: a bright

daffodil

lying in bed, with the sheet pulled up to its chin.

Willi, did I ever know you? The shine

in the lamplight! of your intelligent glasses,

round and humorous.

Did I ever know myself? When I

start bullshitting I see your eyebrows fly… This book

is dedicated to Willi,

whom I do not know,

whom I know. The words in my head

this morning

(these words came from an angel):

“It’s too late to say goodbye.

And there are never enough goodbyes.”

I know: the daffodil

is me. Brave. Willi’s an iris. Brave.

Brave. Tall. Home. Deep. Blue.

To Raphael, angel of happy meeting

The pear tree buds shine like salt;

the stretch of new-ploughed earth holds up

five colors of brown to the strict sun —

like an old woman’s open hand, at rest.

The young people of this house wake up,

one by one, they set out…

Further away, still their voices hold,

across the fog; and the pull of the ropes

— these branches rubbing in the rain —

Further away, the full sails grains of salt

thrown into the wind…

The pear tree prints its buds

across my back, my hands,

bright drops of light, in the wind. Light,

Break through this husk, this

mask of ‘Goodbye’…

Why was I crying? It was as if

some courteous hand

had touched my eyes, and I saw,

in that thin Sixties backyard

in Seattle, the abundant tree

open out its branches, white-gold wings

protective of our waiting,

of our wishes, still too light for us to hold.

Primitive Painting: Liberation Day

Everyone is wearing work clothes, old clothes, boots; and old uniforms, painted green and brown, like trees. The new government has asked everyone to assemble in the center of the Old City, and has given everyone small ribbons to wear, stiff flowers.

Two men in business suits are pouring wine into cups, at a long trestle table; a few of the men and women have begun to drink.

At the bottom corner of the painting is a row of bright green leaves, like a signature. A tall man, in the foreground, looks straight out into the painter’s eyes; his hands are crossed over his genitals. There are no children, or animals, in this picture; no one makes a sound, or has another side.

This is a desert, and they call it peace, this is Liberation Day; the new government is drunk again, and the painter’s fear is white in his paint.

Awake, This Summer

I see you a minute, a year ago, at the door

of our friend’s empty room,

your eyes, the slanted-back weight of your body,

moseying around. That night, your hand

jumped in your sleep, you said

“Everyone was friends”…

Late summer mornings

I slept in your side, in the sun,

and to all your wishes in my sleep I wished “Yes.”

A year’s ocean of sleep we moved in,

without air; no one

was friends.

Awake, this summer, first

finished with that, my chest hurts, and

the shallowest breath is life.

Mandelstam

1934-35. The time of his arrest and imprisonment in Moscow, and his exile, with his wife Nadezhda Jakolevna Khazina, to Voronezh.

My mother’s house

Russia

Calm are the wolf’s bronze udders,

calm the light around her

fur, out-starred with frost

I am 43

Moscow we will not live

Russia

Iron shoe

its little

incurved length and width

Russia old

root cellar old mouth of

blood under-the-earth

pulling us down into herself

no room to lie down

and your poor hand

over and over

draws my brain

back to your breast’s small

campfire

Voronezh we won’t live

not even my hand

to hold to your hand, useless...