Nowhere Is Local, and: Eurydice on the Art of Poetry

NOWHERE IS LOCAL

Ten years and we to New York nowHave moved from Iowa to from Ohio how        far from New YorkTo anywhere now I don't knowBut everywhere seems here or visits and        nowhere is local

I've never anywhere I'veLived before wanted to be buried where I've livedBut have ignored live-long all my life the longest part of life

From fear or fear        of the diminishmentOf love or of        love from the diminishing of joyBut greet it here with you the longest part

Of life it        can be is a joy to wantTo be dead somewhere        is a joy to rest the heartLet me die here where I don't want to die

EURYDICE ON THE ART OF POETRY

The story you        have heard is false it's trueHe sang for me and true        he lulled the godWho didn't care to fight him        easilyThe god is like us all        the blood of the dead

Is made wine by their sorrow        some don't argueAnd others never stop        I followed himYes but he wasn't        told he couldn't lookHe didn't        look because he felt ashamed

I know now he already        had the poemFinished or        nearly so before he leftFor the underworld        he didn't come for meHe came        to check the details he had thought

He'd fail to win me back        and in the endYes        at the mouth of the cave        he just ran offI think he didn't know what else to doI didn't        follow him        it was a relief

To be allowed to keep my death        I heardThe poem first in the spring sung        by a newlymurdered boy who didn't know my nameWhen he was told my name        why should he have

I wasn't in the poem        the poem was true