Congratulations, Rhododendrons

Mary Germaine

• Editore: House of Anansi Press
• Anno: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781487008697
• Argomento: Letteratura
• Categoria: Poetesse

In her debut collection, Congratulations, Rhododendrons, award-winning poet Mary Germaine offers love poems to an insistently unlovely world.

Through poems that speak to plastic bags and drones as much as they admire roses and the moon, Germaine surfs the confluence of artificial and natural environments, technology, and our small but consequential feelings about them. At turns devotional and suspicious, these poems toe the boundaries of intimacy, responsibility, and reason.

In anxious times, anything can be taken as a sign; a crow, a talking coin, and a news report are all sources of information whose truth (or "fake-ness") demand investigation. Germaine's poems scroll from a shrine in Lourdes to an augmented-reality sandbox, from a mall filled with loitering ex–love interests to a fairy-tale ending where all the men turn out to be chairs. Funny, provocative, sly, and melancholic, Congratulations, Rhododendrons makes a case for the hope that every apparent disaster of social investment might in the end be redeemed as meaningful, genuine, or at least in some way helpful.

Part One

Ode

Congratulations, rhododendrons, on a job well done

this year. I’m in love

and your flagrant uptick in blooms has confirmed

---

a kind of religious order in me:

my inside and outside realms are identical.

They completely agree

---

in tense and tone, in depth, perimeter,

economy, and attention to moisture.

The humidity’s gotten to everything

---

and everything I can imagine — useless questions

I would voice, wishes I would rather not,

worries — they’re all laid out in plain sight.

From my place on the porch I can see

exactly which way that love will go.

There’s a thousand different routes but they’re all right

---

in front of me. Today has taken the shape

of a Möbius strip, soft as the porch breeze. As such,

there is only one boundary

---

and it divides what’s real from what isn’t.

Just between us, I don’t think I’m the one

projecting, rhododendrons. I think you are

---

excelling at it. Which is fine with me.

It’s not my job to calculate the difference between

my nerves and the white daytime moths,

or the gulp of sparrows tucked into the boxwood dark

and my own throat or lap or the heat of the flock

as it presses into the air. It’s July. It’s hot everywhere.

---

The tiger lilies jostle and nod. Who here

isn’t doing their best to demonstrate a truly botanical

blind optimism? It’s almost six o’clock.

---

Is it you or me, rhododendrons,

waiting with our red and pink faces

turned in all directions at once? Is it coincidence

---

I was walking through this neighbourhood last night

and my friend said rhododendrons were his favourite?

Occasionally, I had to notice, he smiles as thoroughly

as sunlight travels each vein of a leaf.

And then he smiled at me,

and offered to come by again tomorrow,

---

which is now today. You ruffle, rhododendrons,

and stick out all your necks. You wave as if

winter will never happen. You’re right, it won’t.

Winter is unthinkable now. A zillion flowers cover the sidewalk,

and there’s way more still on the tree, to make sure something’s always

looking up. And someone is crossing the street to me.

Some History of This

If properly wound, the robot friar will pace and kiss

his cross, and clatter out a mea culpa. Then again pace, then kiss —

---

Between an institution and a cliché, there’s a narrow kitchenette

where a loose tooth and a hulking California strawberry try to reinvent the kiss.

---

As if to prove nothing changes, we talk nose-to-nose and every word

marks a new halfway point in the race to an infinitely distant kiss.

---

How do we forgive the guy who’s out there on locust day, waiting to film

the last shaft of wheat that rainbow will bend to kiss?

---

Tonight’s a drag, thinks the bartender, dumping ice melt from half-empty cups.

The sink’s littered with lemon husks a...