The Apple Trees at Olema

Robert Hass

• Éditeur: HarperCollins e-books
• Année: 2010
• ISBN:
  9780061986154
• Sujet: Literature
• Sous-sujet: Literary Criticism in Poetry

"No practicing poet has more talent than Robert Hass."
— Atlantic Monthly

The National Book Award-winning author of Time and Materials, Robert Hass is one of the most revered of all living poets. With The Apple Trees at Olema, the former Poet Laureate and winner of the 2008 Pulitzer Prize offers twenty new and selected poems grounded in the beauty of the physical world. As with all of the collections of this great artist's work, published far too infrequently, The Apple Trees at Olema is a cause for celebration.

Time and Materials

IOWA, JANUARY

In the long winter nights, a farmer’s dreams are narrow.

Over and over, he enters the furrow.

AFTER TRAKL

October night, the sun going down,

Evening with its brown and blue

(Music from another room),

Evening with its blue and brown.

October night, the sun going down.

ENVY OF OTHER PEOPLE’S POEMS

In one version of the legend the sirens couldn’t sing.

It was only a sailor’s story that they could.

So Odysseus, lashed to the mast, was harrowed

By a music that he didn’t hear—plungings of sea,

Wind-sheer, the off-shore hunger of the birds—

And the mute women gathering kelp for garden mulch,

Seeing him strain against the cordage, seeing

The awful longing in his eyes, are changed forever

On their rocky waste of island by their imagination

Of his imagination of the song they didn’t sing.

A SUPPLE WREATH OF MYRTLE

Poor Nietzsche in Turin, eating sausage his mother

Mails to him from Basel. A rented room,

A small square window framing August clouds

Above the mountain. Brooding on the form

Of things: the dangling spur

Of an Alpine columbine, winter-tortured trunks

Of cedar in the summer sun, the warp in the aspen’s trunk

Where it torqued up through the snowpack.

“Everywhere the wasteland grows; woe

To him whose wasteland is within.”

Dying of syphilis. Trimming a luxuriant mustache.

In love with the opera of Bizet.

FUTURES IN LILACS

“Tender little Buddha,” she said

Of my least Buddha-like member.

She was probably quoting Allen Ginsberg,

Who was probably paraphrasing Walt Whitman.

After the Civil War, after the death of Lincoln,

That was a good time to own railroad stocks,

But Whitman was in the Library of Congress,

Researching alternative Americas,

Reading up on the curiosities of Hindoo philosophy,

Studying the etchings of stone carvings

Of strange couplings in a book.

She was taking off a blouse,

Almost transparent, the color of a silky tangerine.

From Capitol Hill Walt Whitman must have been able to see

Willows gathering the river haze

In the cooling and still-humid twilight.

He was in love with a trolley conductor

In the summer of—what was it?—1867? 1868?

THREE DAWN SONGS IN SUMMER

1.

The first long shadows in the fields

Are like mortal difficulty.

The first birdsong is not like that at all.

2.

The light in summer is very young and wholly unsupervised.

No one has made it sit down to breakfast.

It’s the first one up, the first one out.

3.

Because he has opened his eyes, he must be light

And she, sleeping beside him, must be the visible,

One ringlet of hair curled about her ear.

Into which he whispers, “Wake up!”

“Wake up!” he whispers.

THE DISTRIBUTION OF HAPPINESS

Bedcovers thrown back,

Tangled sheets,

Lustrous in moonlight.

Image of delight,

or longing,

or torment,

Depending on who’s

Doing the imagining.

(I know: you are the one

Pierced through, I’m the one

Bent low beside you, trying

To peer into your eyes.)

ETYMOLOGY

Her body by the fire

Mimicked the light-conferring midnights

of philosophy.

Suppose they are dead now.

Isn’t “dead now” an odd expression?

The sound of the owls outside

And the wind soughing in the trees

Catches in their ears, is sent out

In scouting parties of sensation down their spines.

If you say it became language or it was nothing,

Who touched whom?

In what hurtle of starlight?

Poor language, poor theory

of language. The shards of skull

In the Egyptian museum looked like maps of the wind-eroded

Canyon labyrinths from which,

Standing on the verge

In the yellow of a dwindling fall, you hear

Echo and reecho the cries of terns

Fishing the worked silver of a rapids.

And what to say of her wetness? The Anglo-Saxons

Had a name for it. They called it silm.

They were navigators. It was also

Their word for the look of moonlight on the sea.

THE PROBLEM OF DESCRIBING COLOR

If I said—remembering in summer,

The cardinal’s sudden smudge of red

In the bare gray winter woods—

If I said, red ribbon on the cocked straw hat

of the girl with pooched-out lips

Dangling a wiry lapdog

In the painting by Renoir—

If I said fire, if I said blood welling fro...