Were the box to be opened

Unknown to her the clothes Mrs. Kennedy wore into the bright midday glare of Dallas lie in an attic not far from 3017 N Street. In Bethesda that night those closest to her had vowed that from the moment she shed them she should never see them again. She hasn't. Yet they are still there, in one of two long brown paper cartons thrust between roof rafters. The first is marked "September 12, 1953," the date of her marriage; it contains her wedding gown. The block-printed label on the other is "Worn by Jackie, November 22, 1963." Inside, neatly arranged, are the pink wool suit, the black shift, the low-heeled shoes and, wrapped in a white towel, the stockings. Were the box to be opened by an intruder from some land so remote that the name, the date and photographs of the ensemble had not been published and republished until they had been graven upon his memory, he might conclude that these were merely stylish garments which had passed out of fashion and which, because they were associated with some pleasant occasion, had not been discarded.

         If the trespasser looked closer, however, he would be momentarily baffled.  The memento of a happy time would be cleaned before storing.  Obviously this costume has not been.  There are ugly splotches along the front and hem of the skirt.  The handbag's leather and the inside of each shoe are caked dark red.  And the stockings are quite odd.  Once the same substance streaked them in mad scribbly patterns, but time and the sheerness of the fabric have altered it. The rusty clots have flaked off; they lie in tiny brittle grains on the nap of the towel. Examining them closely, the intruder would see his error.  This clothing, he would perceive, had not been kept out of sentiment.  He would realize that it had been worn by a slender young woman who had met with some dreadful accident.  He might ponder whether she had survived.  He might even wonder who had been to blame.

William Manchester, Death of a President, 1967.

Incantations

OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?

Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?

Give them me.

                        No.

Give them me. Give them me.

                        No.

Then I will howl all night in the reeds,

Lie in the mud and howl for them.

Goblin, why do you love them so?

They are better than stars or water,

Better than voices of winds that sing,

Better than any man’s fair daughter,

Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

Hush I stole them out of the moon.

Give me your beads, I desire them.

                        No.

I will howl in a deep lagoon

For your green glass beads, I love them so.

Give them me. Give them.

                        No. 

'Strange Meetings' Poems by Harold Monro

JENNY KISSED ME

Jenny kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat it.

Time, you thief who loves to get

Sweets into your list, put that in.

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me.

Say I'm growing old, but add,

Jenny kissed me.

                                         by Leigh Hunt.

Crow's Theology

Crow's Theology
            by Ted Hughes

Crow realized God loved him-
Otherwise, he would have dropped dead.
So that was proved.
Crow reclined, marvelling, on his heart-beat. 
And he realized that God spoke Crow-
Just existing was His revelation. 
But what Loved the stones and spoke stone?
They seemed to exist too.
And what spoke that strange silence
After his clamour of caws faded? 
And what loved the shot-pellets
That dribbled from those strung-up mummifying crows?
What spoke the silence of lead? 
Crow realized there were two Gods-
One of them much bigger than the other
Loving his enemies
And having all the weapons. 
                                       

Bitter Lemons

by Lawrence Durrell

BITTER LEMONS

In an island of bitter lemons

Where the moon's cool fevers burn

From the dark globes of the fruit,

And the dry grass underfoot

Tortures memory and revises

Habits half a lifetime dead

Better leave the rest unsaid,

beauty, darkness, vehemence

Let the old sea nurses keep

Their memorials of sleep

And the Greek sea's curly head

Keep its calms like tears unshed

Keep its calms like tears unshed.

AT RHODES

Anonymous hand, record one afternoon,

In May, some time before the fig-leaf:

Boats lying idle in the sky, a town

Thrown as on a screen of watered silk,

Lying on its side, reddish and soluble,

A sheet of glass leading down into the sea . . .

Down here an idle boy catches a cicada:

Imprisons it, laughing, in his sister's cloa

In whose warm folds the silly creature sings.

Shape of boats, body of a young girl, cicada,

Conspire and join each other here,

In twelve sad lines against the dark.

SHIPS. ISLANDS. TREES

These ships, these islands, these simple trees

Are our rewrds in substance, being poor.

This earth a dictionary is

To the root and growth of seeing,

And to the servant heart a door.

Some on the green surface of the land

With all their canvas up in leav and flower,

And some empty of influence

But from the water-winds,

Free as love's green attractions are.

Smoke bitter and blue from farms.

And points of feeble light in houses

Come after them in the scale

Of the material and the beautiful;

Are not less complex but less delicate

And less important than these living

Instruments of space,

Whose quiet communication is

With older trees in ships on the grey waves:

And order and a music

Like a writing on the skies

Too private for the reason or the pen;

Too simple even for the heart's surprise.

From The Poetry of Lawrence Durrell, 1962.

Three by Akhmatova

by Anna Akhmatova

The three things he loved most in life

Were white peacocks, music at mass,

And tattered maps of America.

He didn't like kids who cried and he

Didn't like raspberry jam with tea

Or womanish hysteria.

. . . And I was, like it or not, his wife.

                                      1910-1911

Broad and yellow is the evening light,

The coolness of April is dear.

You, of course, are several years late,

Even so, I'm happy you're here.

Sit close at hand and look at me,

With those eyes, so cheerful and mild:

This blue notebook is full, you see,

Full of poems I wrote as a child.

Forgive me, forgive me, for having grieved

For ignoring the sunlight, too.

And especially for having believed

That so many others were you.

                                   1915

I hear the oriole's voice, clear and distressed,

I greet the waning of the summer but

One wheat ear against another pressed

The sickles with reptilian hisses cut.

The short hems of the women in the field

Fly in the wind like flags on a holiday.

Now I yearn for the joyful bells that pealed,

His dusty lashes -- And he didn't look away.

I don't expect caresses or words to spare

In expectation of that dark descent,

But do come look at the paradises where

Together we were blissful and innocent.

                                    1917



From Anna Akhmatova, Poems, 1974. Trans., Lyn Coffin.

Dancing by the Black Sea

by Patrick Leigh Fermor

At the end of the dance, Dimitri joined us by the fire and swelled the accompaniment with his own voice and another gourd. The next dance, on which Costa now embarked solo, though akin to its forerunner, was even odder. There was the same delay and deliberation, the same hanging head with its cap on the side, a cigarette in the middle of the dancer's mouth. He gazed at the ground with his eyes almost closed, rotating on the spot with his hands crossed in the small of his back; soon they rose above his head like a vulture's wings opening, then soared in alternate sweeps before his lowered face with an occasional carefully placed crack of thumb and forefinger and the slow and complex steps evolved. The downward gaze, the absorption, the precise placing of the feet, the sudden twirl of the body, the sinking on alternate knees, the sweep of an outstretched leg in three quarters of a circle, with the arms all at once outflung in two radii as the dancer rose again in another slow circle, gather pace till he spun for a few seconds at high speed and then slowed down in defiance of all the laws of momentum -- these steps and passes and above alll the downward scrutiny were as though the dancer were proving, on the fish scales and the goats' droppings underfoot, some lost theorem about tangents and circles, or retracing the conclusions of Pythagoras about the square on the hypotenuse. Sometimes during these subsidences, he slapped the ground with one hand and shot into the air again. A leap, after a few grave and nearly static paces, would carry him effortlessly through the air to land motionless with knees bent and ankles crossed. he would rise from this crouched posture, his trunk flung forward like a pair of scissors closing, the smoke from his cigarette spiralling round him. These abrupt acrobatics and calculated flashes of strength were redoubled in effect by the measured smoothness and abstraction fo the steps that bracketed them. This controlled acceleration and braking wove them all into a single and solemn choreographic line. Perhaps the most striking aspect of it was the tragic and doomed aura that surrounded the dance, the flaunting so quickly muffled, and the introvert and cerebral aloofness of the dancer, so cut off by indifference from the others in the cave that he might have been alone in another room, applying ritual devices to conundrums reluctant of yielding their answers, or exorcizing a private and incommunicable pain. The loneliness was absolute. The singing had stopped and nothing but the jangle of the wire strings accompanied him.  

From Patrick Leigh Fermor, The Broken Road, 2013 (241-242).

The time a bedtime story takes

Two by Glyn Maxwell

SOUTH-EAST OF EDEN

Together they took the least space they could.

Entered each other deeply, to be less,

to throw one shadow only, to be still

for all the world while moving for each other.

So space, so barely dented, might not bruise

and cry, and time come running. This was why

their breaths were held inside till the only end

of that -- this side of nothing -- the great sigh

that gives the place away . . .

                               And out they come,

exiting one another with the kiss

to heal the bruise and be the bruise and there

they sit. The only angel in this case

came only there to point them, in their first

amazing silence, to two peaceful desks.

BIRTHPLACE

Hard to remember, now there is nothing here,

that there was once nothing here. Hard to remember

they paused in a field with a plot for a field and a feel

of a place in mind and a little know of horses

     faraway in a corner stood there

pretty much where that kittle knot of horses

stands. The railway ran through the white template,

the life and death of it, made east and west

of nowhere. North and south it left itself

     whichever way one looked.

Hard to remember now that it's all begun

that it all began and, now that it's all over,

hard to recall it's gone. Those who are gone

arrive in a crest of steam and the late-lamented

     help them with their boxes.

Those to the east have a shed and those to the west

a greenhouse, it was a field and not a field

hereafter, it was a path through new houses

and a sweetship. There was a lane and another lane

     which, crossing it, was obliged

to name what it was named and the five things

needed they built buildings for. A meadow

reared its set of gardens like farm-children
edging behind houses to belong there,

     to cluster and imagine

a gate that is always shut will be always open.

But for now the horizon was sky and a blackberry hedge

and the north was the nettle-bed, and the south the roses

and the east and archway to those sad allotments,

     and the west a banded twilight

as out they build, in the time a bedtime story

takes to ferry me shipshape to tomorrow;

out they build till I wake and the horizon's

gone. It won't be found until it's wept to

     on a holiday. The town

is mine, this side of town is mine, the homes

go strolling by, then, bowing out of sight

they scurry round the world to be back in time

for when I pass, as if they never budged,

     and a chuckle of wood-chimes

From Glyn Maxwell, Pluto, 2013.