Close to the Shore
Poems by Jacqueline Marcus
So now my dear cello,
light of darkness
—sad, sweet bass—what will you play for me tonight? What quiet reminder
through the foghorn's pulse,
the room is senseless,
and everyone needs their comfort from time to time.
Like old Pére Goriot,
drinking his stale tea in a cracked cup
with winter coming on from the dolorous trees,
what bass sound could borrow such weathered clothes,
such a poor moon,
begging for a taste of water?
Will you sing of the leaves, grey and deadly in the streets?
How strange to think of yourself in this way
—an old man, like Hemingway's figure who leans into the candle of a late night café,
how this cello illuminates my darkest fear,
my best recollection, my sun-drenched dreams, clean as a sheet,
pinned to the sea-air to dry.
How strange to think of my whole life like a secret grave.
a night with the lapping waves, my beautiful cello,
the moon, brushing my blond hair,
the shadows of ancient trees that reach for me and want me,
poor, sad soldiers...
You sing as if I were truly with them,
living and partly living,
like the women of Canterbury waiting for their saintly Bishop.
You ask for my confession, dear, sad cello.
But I have nothing to say.
Can you practice that? Can you mourn that, in all good faith?
First appeared in THE JOURNAL
Republished in THE 1997 ANTHOLOGY OF MAGAZINE VERSE & YEARBOOK OF AMERICAN POETRY
Dear Thomas,
Last night I followed the moon's path
above the cypress tree,
and up over the ridge of the sleeping girl's face
until it quietly vanished into the void.
I can't say if I heard the old tracks, the whistle and smoke
of Eighteen eighty four,
or was it the starlings, astonished
by their grief?
But it seems fair enough to substitute the moment for now.
I can't say how long the moon has traveled back and forth,
the same way, if it is worth
the trouble
like Sisyphus and his boulder. I can only tell you that by now
the eyes of so many birds are tired;
I would like to close my own,
and rest
the way the mallards rest on a cool pond.
November in the distance,
December with its axe, a blow to ice.
The clothes of so many bones,
gold teeth melted down,
stimulants for the heart, sedatives for the nerves,
and nothing less than the snow.
Wrong century. Wrong Deliverance. Wrong pocket of change.
Still, there is always the moon to consider,
shimmering a little in its watery flame, gathering the dark,
absorbing its grace, unencumbered,
climbing the sky in its black robe, slow
impartial pilgrim of the North.
I imagine the journey is more pleasant up there
than it is below;
more silent. Dear Thomas -
the work that awaits us is enormous.
First appeared in COLLEGE ENGLISH
Read more poems by Jacqueline Marcus at Samsara Quarterly Review:
"Kafka and Milena in the Afterlight"
Close to the Shore
Poems by Jacqueline Marcus