American Poetry Now: Pitt Poetry Series Anthology

Peter Everwine

0 4 peter everWine Peter Everwineistheauthorof sevencollectionsof poetry,including CollectingtheAnimals,whichwontheLamontPoetryPrize(nowtheJames LaughlinAward).HeretiredfromCaliforniaStateUniversity,Fresno,in . Photo by Micha Langer  4 peter everWine Drinking Cold Water Almosttwentyyears sinceyouputonyouronegooddress andlaydownintheshalehillsof Pennsylvania. Whatyouexpectedfromlifewasnothingmuch, anditcame andsoitwas. InCaliforniaImournedandthenforgot, thoughsometimes,inamirror, Isawsomeonewalkfromtheweeds, steppingfromashineof water, anditwasyou,shining. TonightIbroughtmybundleof years toanemptyhouse. WhenIopenedit,aboywalkedout— drinkingcoldwater,watchingthe moonriseslimandshiningoveryourhouse. WhateveritwasIwanted musthavecomeandgone. Twentyyears,grandmother. HereIstand inthepovertyof myfeet, andIknowwhatyou’ddo: you’denteryourblackshawl, stepbackintotheshadowsof yourhair. Andthat’snohelptonight. AllIcanthinkof isyourhouse— thepumpatthesink spillingatroughof clear coldwaterfromthewell— andyou,oldlove, sleepinginyourdarkdress likeahard,whiteroot.  4 peter everWine Perhaps It’s as You Say Perhapsit’sasyousay Thatnothingstayslostforever HowmanytimeshaveIsaidNoNo Thereisadarknessinthecell Andopenedmyhandstocupemptiness Tastingitsbittenface Idonotknowif ourlovessurviveus Waitingthroughthelongnightforourstep Orif theywillknowusthen Enteringourfleshwiththeoldsigh Idonotknow ButIthinkof fieldsthatstretchawayflat Beneaththestarstheirdrygrasses Gatheringalightof honey Thefewhouseswinkandgoout Acrossthefieldsanasphaltroaddarkens Anddisappearsamongthecottonwoodsbythedrycreek Itissoquietsoquiet Meetmethere Sorting the Tools —FireIleavetomychildren Thisisthehammer andthenails. Ientermybrother’shouse forthelasttime.  4 peter everWine Thisistheminer’slamp, thebitandthesackof dust. Thisisthebread thatstinksof carbide. Thesearethenumbers of thesleepless,rising inthepower of theirtruenames: Inthenameof crowbar whichis. Inthenameof brokenback whichis. Thisisthepenis thatlugsandsweatslikeahorse. Thesearehands intheircrustof deadlights. Letthesunandmoongo, theblackroof, theseamsof theearth gatheringwater. Thisistheanimal thatgrewtiredandslept. Thesearewords leftoutintherain. In the Last Days Inthelastdaysof myfather’sillness helivedon,separatefromus,inatinyroom withawindowinit,wherewecouldlookinandwatch himlaboringathisheavysleep.  4 peter everWine Thisistheminer’slamp, thebitandthesackof dust. Thisisthebread thatstinksof carbide. Thesearethenumbers of thesleepless,rising inthepower of theirtruenames: Inthenameof crowbar whichis. Inthenameof brokenback whichis. Thisisthepenis thatlugsandsweatslikeahorse. Thesearehands intheircrustof deadlights. Letthesunandmoongo, theblackroof, theseamsof theearth gatheringwater. Thisistheanimal thatgrewtiredandslept. Thesearewords leftoutintherain. In the Last Days Inthelastdaysof myfather’sillness helivedon,separatefromus,inatinyroom withawindowinit,wherewecouldlookinandwatch himlaboringathisheavysleep.  4 peter everWine Andonlyoncedidhestartleup fromthepillow,wideeyed,andslappedonepalm acrosstheother—Phsst!hesaid,andsmiled,andshookhishead asif indisbelief downintosleepagain. Idon’tknowwhatmyfathersawthen,wandering insomemazyepisodeof time. Thatwasfortyyearsago.Fortyyears,likeyesterday. Almosthisownagenow,Icansee hisfacebeforeme:hiswrysmileof wonder, asif somethinghadleaptupunderfoot inthedarkandspedaway ashewatched. Poem Beginning with a Line from Leonardo Sinisgalli —for C.H. Perhapsthismemory,too,isuseless: Amidsummermorning.Youstandatmyopendoor, aboyinwornjeansshiftingfromfoottofoot andstuttering,asalways,yourwords longsincegoneintowindandsilence. Youholdoutyournewmail-orderguitar asanoffering,andtheearlylight,falling throughthemaples,flares againstitspolishedwoodandmetal... theimagesuspendedinthisquietroom whereIwrite.Charlie,Idon’tknowwhy youcometomind.Wewereneverboyhoodfriends; ourliveswereseparate.Withyourthinface andtroubledtongue,youwerenot amongthefavored.Idon’tknowwhy youchosemydoororwhy,yearslater, youflungyourself fromthebridge intowatersosulfurousandfoulnothing  4 peter everWine Andonlyoncedidhestartleup fromthepillow,wideeyed,andslappedonepalm acrosstheother—Phsst!hesaid,andsmiled,andshookhishead asif indisbelief downintosleepagain. Idon’tknowwhatmyfathersawthen,wandering insomemazyepisodeof time. Thatwasfortyyearsago.Fortyyears,likeyesterday. Almosthisownagenow,Icansee hisfacebeforeme:hiswrysmileof wonder, asif somethinghadleaptupunderfoot inthedarkandspedaway ashewatched. Poem Beginning with a Line from Leonardo Sinisgalli —for C.H. Perhapsthismemory,too,isuseless: Amidsummermorning.Youstandatmyopendoor, aboyinwornjeansshiftingfromfoottofoot andstuttering,asalways,yourwords longsincegoneintowindandsilence. Youholdoutyournewmail-orderguitar asanoffering,andtheearlylight,falling throughthemaples,flares againstitspolishedwoodandmetal... theimagesuspendedinthisquietroom whereIwrite.Charlie,Idon’tknowwhy youcometomind.Wewereneverboyhoodfriends; ourliveswereseparate.Withyourthinface andtroubledtongue,youwerenot amongthefavored.Idon’tknowwhy youchosemydoororwhy,yearslater, youflungyourself fromthebridge intowatersosulfurousandfoulnothing  4 peter everWine wouldliveinit,notevenyou. Musicdidnotsaveyou,Charlie. Wordswillnotsaveme— useless,perhaps,yethereyouare,unbidden, standingbeforemeinthemystery of anotherwiseforgottenmorning asif youwerenotsimplyamemory butmemoryitself,trembling andinarticulate,yourface shiningwithjoyasyoureachouttotouch asinglestring,itssound alreadysilence. From the Meadow Itisn’tthatyouwereignorant: starthistle,bloodroot,cruciform... beautifulwords,thenasnow, unlikepainwithitswoodenalphabet, itsmanyillustrations,whichareredundant. Youhadimaginedvistas,anopenmeadow: onthefarside,watertremblesitslights; cattlecomedowntotheirshadowlives beneaththetrees; thelanguageof childhoodisinventedanew. Butnowyouknow,right,whatliesahead isnothingtotheviewbehind? Howbreathtakingthesenostalgiasrising likehazyconstellationsoverhead!— littletogoby,surely, thoughfromthemeadowwhereyoustandlooking overyourshoulder,thattinyfigureyousee seemstobecallingsomeone, youperhaps.  4 peter everWine wouldliveinit,notevenyou. Musicdidnotsaveyou,Charlie. Wordswillnotsaveme— useless,perhaps,yethereyouare,unbidden, standingbeforemeinthemystery of anotherwiseforgottenmorning asif youwerenotsimplyamemory butmemoryitself,trembling andinarticulate,yourface shiningwithjoyasyoureachouttotouch asinglestring,itssound alreadysilence. From the Meadow Itisn’tthatyouwereignorant: starthistle,bloodroot,cruciform... beautifulwords,thenasnow, unlikepainwithitswoodenalphabet, itsmanyillustrations,whichareredundant. Youhadimaginedvistas,anopenmeadow: onthefarside,watertremblesitslights; cattlecomedowntotheirshadowlives beneaththetrees; thelanguageof childhoodisinventedanew. Butnowyouknow,right,whatliesahead isnothingtotheviewbehind? Howbreathtakingthesenostalgiasrising likehazyconstellationsoverhead!— littletogoby,surely, thoughfromthemeadowwhereyoustandlooking overyourshoulder,thattinyfigureyousee seemstobecallingsomeone, youperhaps.  4 peter everWine The Heart Wedrawitsoitlooks likeadeer’sfootprint,smoothing itsrednessintoashapewecanfill withsweetnessoratrackwecanfollow throughthewildernessof ourlives intoaclearingwecalllove orsometimes,mercy—Haveaheart,wesay— asif onedidn’tneedtheother, asif theheartdidn’tbreak. Inasmallwhiteroom Isawmyheart,afteritbroke. Itswamupfromthedark, ablind,albinoshape,thick andwrithing,twistingandsinkingback inshadowsasif itshunnedthelight itcouldonlyfeel,notsee. Anditmadeasound,notlikeaslackdrum, butlikethewhip-poor-will Ilistenedtoasaboy,singingonspringevenings attheedgeof thewoods— whip-poor-will,whip-poor-will— butsibilantnowandurgent, asif alittlehoarsefromalltheyears of callingoutitsnametotheunansweringdark. IclosemyeyesandIcanseeit, andsometimes,inquietmomentsbeforesleep, IimagineIhearitsingingstill, sothatthewoodsreturn,andtheboy, andthespringevenings— Olove,Omercy, Opassingyears! ...