Peonies, and: God Said, Let There Be an End
Rent from DeepDyve- Peonies, and: God Said, Let There Be an End
Peonies
Now that the garden has been bulldozedby local managers, the jasminehas been put to the ground for now,lest the man in Burgstrasse 19 admirethe scent he feels coming throughthe clear window across the seas.Done with gardenia, I toyed awhilewith black-eyed susan (even drank itdry in Kentucky), so that every other yearall would appear to come back alivewhile she died, and I died with her.This current patch of clay, now sandor rocky ground, is one I thoughthad a natural course for care, a furrowdeep enough in time for other flowers.So I worked this land from end to end,but they have taken away the light,shade, good rain, even the earth for them.I raised all from a nursery, the peonies,this bright, lovely buckeye bellethat no one may buy, no one may sell,a song that I hear day and night.Anyway, it’s in my ear. You might have ause for perennials, so I send you these. [End Page 118]
God Said, Let There Be an End
God said, Let there be an endto this nonsense: they can eat their Galasor what they want elsewhere;they can’t even resist themselves,spare fruit, grain, drink;can’t speak a worduntil it’s put into the mouth.Let them have their do.This is not the place for them,crybabies crèche, kindergartento college on roller skatesso they can pay rent and utilities,fall sick working or not-working,make and clash swords to draw bloodfor more and more—tastes of the flesh.They will resign later to saladsof puritanical diet, resort to confessions,look for a deal past the funeral rites.Now let them make up their own stories.
They crossed that invisible thresholdto outer space together, she first.All they had or knew was hunger.Where were they?
Two vicars came by, much later,to hand them brochures they could not read.So one’s oral directions were for Macy’sto get some clothes before the otherpictured for them Campbell’s soupand vendibles they could affordfrom their Social Security pay. [End Page 119] The vicars, their son and daughter down the line,hardly knew these strangers from abroad.
They may have lived or passed through life,be still around, with us, we haven’t a way to know.Death was a house chore, avoidable.Now it lives just across from here,has an address. [End Page 120]
Alamgir Hashmi has published eleven books of poetry and numerous volumes of literary criticism. He has been writing poetry and prose for fifty years and has taught as a university professor in Europe, America, and Asia. Recent work appears in Poetry Review, Poet Lore, Poetry International, and Connecticut Review. A Rockefeller Fellow, he has won many honors and awards for his work, and his work has been translated into European, Asian, and African languages. He is founding president of the Literature Podium, an Independent Society for Literature and the Arts.
