I had originally planned to run these sections two at a time. But I know I will be busy over the next few days with the Holiday and being on-call, etc. So, I am running the remaining seven sections here now. As I mentioned to a few people already, it will be a VERY long time before I attempt a poem of this length again. But the thrill of writing it was incredible. I can still remember how I wrote huge chunks of it at a time. I drafted the whole thing in three sittings and revised it over a few weeks. And I am still indebted to Susan Hahn for publishing it in its entirety a few years ago in
TriQuarterly. Anyway, here are the final sections:
XXI
Because Spain flickered in the hearts of men,
the ceiling was littered with coats of arms,
heraldic lions, banners billowing . . .
An aged Henry James once sat under this barrage
of color, no doubt annoyed— Spain more imperial
in the original. Here, Ponce de Leon knights the air
with a lance, the etched birds scattering,
the painted clouds parting: O ceilings vaulted with light,
canonize us with the subtle glow of angels.
XXII
Did you hear the cry of the falcon?
The fourth call, made for a response
and different from the warning note that precedes
the attack or the cry that signals storm, storm?
At the edge of the park, atop the dunes,
the cloud-gatherer spirals his hands.
For a moment, he is the maelstrom of birds
spiraling above the windmill,
continuously moving to evade attack.
XXIII
Someone at City Hall had scaled down our
solar system—a foot of 8th Avenue the equivalent
of what had to be a ridiculous number of miles,
light years maybe—and installed stakes along
the road, each bearing the name of a planet.
Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto, and then the hill
lifting the road to remind us of gravity, something
that could be felt as well as measured. I had no idea
that Distance, too, could be felt, the way it could hurt.
XXIV
If a child is a compilation of genes,
the amalgam of our traits, our actions,
is it not also the inheritor of our faults?
Of course, questions like these are answers
in and of themselves. The wind turned
and my eyes stung from the salty air.
How could such a child survive
carrying so many faults? It was a gift
for two who had never learned to be generous.
XXV
Mother of tears, Mother of the grey-blue stone,
pray for us sinners. I have come to the edge
of a bluff, the Pacific crashing below me.
I have come with an old grief that is heavy
but refuses to sink. Holy Mother, Star of the Sea
who guides the ships across straits and shallows,
I have come without help or guidance.
The ocean keeps up its terrible din.
There is no one at the edge of sight.
XXVI
You must be still. You must move as if
through water. Your feet must be an anchor,
your hands both graceful and terrible.
You must become water. You must absorb force.
Let yourself ripple each attack to stillness.
Whatever happens cannot be erased.
Let your surfaces reflect and distort.
Be still and move only with purpose.
You must be calm but capable of great force.
XXVII
I think of you when I least expect to do so.
There, above the Pacific, the surf challenging
the rocky coast with deceptions, the wind turned.
Sometimes, early in the morning, I believe
you are the one lying next to me in bed,
your hands clenching the sheets under your chin.
I who have painted only precious landscapes
failed to capture those hands on canvas.
Memory, do not fail me. Let me try again.
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To those who have emailed me about this, thank you. I will email you all back soon.
