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The Last Love Poem I Will Ever Write

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by Gregory Orr




  The Last

  Love Poem

  I Will Ever

  Write

  POEMS

  Gregory Orr

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  FOR TRISHA

  Contents

  And So

  Song of What Happens

  No use closing . . .

  Dark Song

  Song of Aftermath—“Standing, now . . .”

  Ode to Nothing

  *

  Reading Dickinson

  Lines Standing in for Religious Conviction

  Ode to Some Lyric Poets

  Ode to Words

  Song of Lyric Geography

  *

  You sat alone in a room . . .

  There are questions . . .

  The Undertoad

  Trying hard just to listen . . .

  Aftermath Sonnet—“Letting my tongue sleep . . .”

  How often I’ve wished . . .

  It’s narrow . . .

  Aftermath Inventory—“Shattered? . . .”

  For Trisha

  We were that joke . . .

  Ode to the Country of Us

  *

  Sitting at a dinner table . . .

  The Ferris Wheel at the World’s Fair

  Dark Proverbs for Dark Times

  I Don’t Really Care, Do You?

  Charlottesville Elegy

  Hector Bidding Wife and Child a Last Good-bye

  Downtown Tour

  Lyric Revises the World

  Ode to These Socks

  *

  Coleridge and Me

  Emily Dickinson Test-Drives the First Home Sewing Machine

  Into a thousand pieces?

  Some phrases move . . .

  Ode to Left-Handedness

  Certain poems offer me . . .

  For weeks now . . .

  Still Life

  For My Daughters

  For My Mother

  The last love poem I will ever write . . .

  Young, I took it all so . . .

  Secret Constellation

  Inscription

  It’s time . . .

  Acknowledgments

  The Last

  Love Poem

  I Will Ever

  Write

  And So

  “He’s already in heaven,” she said,

  “Sitting down to feast with Jesus.”

  Back then, if I had been eight or ten

  And she had been a peer instead

  Of an adult, I might have said:

  “You must have a hole in your head,”

  Meaning: You must be crazy.

  But I was twelve and though

  I thought she was insane I was too

  Polite and frightened to say as much.

  And the hole was not a metaphor

  But one a bullet had made that day

  In my brother’s head. And I

  Was the one who put it there.

  I wonder if she was thinking

  Of the painted window

  In our dinky church: the one

  Where Jesus sat at a picnic table

  With bread and a jug of something?

  Was it an image of the Wedding

  At Cana? Or the Last Supper

  Before any of the other guests

  Had arrived?

  He didn’t look

  Lonely, He just sat with His arms

  Spread and His empty hands open

  As if He was patiently waiting

  For someone to put something in them:

  A plate of food? Some nails? A gun?

  Who knows what He was up to,

  What He thought or felt?

  He was in His world

  And I was in mine.

  This is all I knew that was true:

  I was alive; my brother was dead.

  When I closed my eyes I saw him

  Lying at my feet.

  I knew

  God and I were through,

  And after that, what is there?

  I imagined I was floating

  Alone in a vast abyss

  Like a little cloud,

  But I wasn’t—I was falling

  As fast as a material body can,

  But the distance was infinite

  And there was nothing near

  By which to judge

  What was happening, and so

  It seemed I wasn’t moving at all.

  Song of What Happens

  If I wrote in a short story

  Or novel that when my father

  Was young, about thirteen,

  He and his best friend

  Stole a rifle from the car trunk

  Of a man who worked

  For his family, then took

  Paper plates from the kitchen

  And went out to a field,

  Intending to toss them

  Into the air and shoot them . . .

  That there’d been an accident

  And he killed his best friend.

  Sad, but believable—it happens

  More often than you’d imagine

  In the country.

  But then I add:

  My dad grew up, married,

  Had four sons, gave each

  Of the two oldest

  Shotguns when they were

  Twelve and ten

  So they could all hunt pheasants.

  And when I turned twelve,

  He gave me a rifle—a .22.

  And that same year

  We went hunting deer

  In a far field on our property

  And my gun, that I didn’t know

  Was loaded, went off

  And killed my younger brother

  Who was standing beside me.

  Two boys, my father and I,

  Barely in their teens,

  Killing two others they loved

  By accident—that kind

  Of coincidence isn’t credible

  In fiction, much less in a poem

  Where you’re not allowed

  To describe too much

  Or explain, or ascribe motives

  Because each word is precious

  And the fewer you use

  The better the poem.

  And yet,

  I’m telling you it’s true,

  It really happened.

  All of us

  Can see the pattern here—

  Two young boys kill

  Someone they love

  By accident.

  But do you

  Think God planned it?

  And if so, why?

  Do you think my father

  Unconsciously arranged

  A repetition, hoping

  It would end differently?

  I’m happy for you if you

  Can explain it

  To your satisfaction.

  I can’t.

  I’m only telling you

  About it, because

  It’s factual; it happened.

  And because I want you to know

  How strange life is.

  No use closing . . .

  No use closing my eyes

  Now—

  After

  The lightning flash.

  Wince and blinding—

  They’re both

  Already inside me.

  Dark Song

  The heart, altering, alters all.

  Sometimes, it happens and who

  Knows why—the world

  Suddenly turns ugly

  And decides to crush you.

  Don’t waste time trying

  To understand, ju
st fight

  For your life, do all you can

  To survive.

  That’s what

  Jacob did on the riverbank

  When he was ambushed

  By that cruel angel.

  All night

  He fought against a silent,

  Giant malice that was

  Determined to destroy him.

  Yes, he came through it alive—

  I’m with you on that:

  By all means, let’s celebrate

  What a doughty human can do

  Against impossible odds.

  But who says the actual

  Battle was the worst of it?

  There’s also aftermath.

  I wish Jacob good luck

  Trying to figure out

  Why God would

  Send such a creature to do

  Such a job.

  Maybe he got

  A blessing; maybe not,

  But I’m personally certain

  Of this much:

  As that

  Bleak dawn came on

  And he sat in the mud,

  Recovering,

  Rubbing his torn shoulder

  And bruised legs,

  Jacob’s heart was filling

  With a bitter

  Wisdom

  Blended of tears,

  Rage, fear and shame.

  For me, the only question is:

  After that, what cup?

  What cup could he drink from?

  Song of Aftermath

  Standing, now, in a place

  Scrubbed raw by flood.

  I, who sought neither

  Rapture nor fracture.

  Now the question is:

  What to do with shatter?

  Someone else’s map?

  I’d end up half-trapped;

  And even the best often

  Just guess what’s next.

  If I’m to grow now,

  It will be through grieving;

  It will be through this

  Deepening I didn’t choose.

  Ode to Nothing

  Sorrow makes children of us all—

  the wisest knows nothing.

  EMERSON

  1. At the Heart of It All

  When scientists tell us

  Atoms are mostly

  Made of nothing,

  They are speaking

  As priests charged

  With a deep mystery:

  How nothing holds

  The universe together;

  How nothing

  Is the secret force

  At the heart of it all.

  In the old days, theologians

  Asked: Is there an angel

  Of nothing

  Among the heavenly hosts?

  The answer is No.

  Nor does an angel

  Of nothing dwell in hell.

  Nothing is the only

  Angel and cannot

  Rise or fall.

  All of us surround

  The angel of nothing,

  Whizzing our winged

  Elliptical circuits of worship

  Like electrons

  Orbiting a nucleus.

  With our restless fly-buzz

  We create

  The material world.

  2. If They Bowed

  The wisest among us

  Always believed in

  Nothing. When the lamp

  Of faith went out,

  They knew nothing

  Remained. They knew

  Nothing was there

  Like a pillar

  Of darkness,

  Holding up the sky.

  They knew nothing

  Was necessary

  To explain the way

  Things were . . .

  Some of them hid

  Their belief

  In nothing. Some

  Even praised

  The created world

  And said they loved

  Everything, but

  Really nothing

  Sat on their heart’s

  Throne and held sway.

  If they bowed at all,

  It was to nothing.

  If they prayed,

  They prayed to nothing.

  Is dew on the grass

  At sunrise nothing?

  Is the vowel

  Vibrating the open

  Throat nothing?

  Yes. Nothing

  Surrounds us.

  Nothing is inside us.

  Nothing is the pure

  Source where the soul

  Kneels at dawn,

  Where it drinks, then sings.

  3. The Journey

  Nothing guides you through the night

  Woods. Nothing knows the way.

  Nothing conducted all the old poets

  When they were lost souls.

  Nothing rose up in the form of a crow

  Or a figure in a cone of light.

  Nothing stood before them and said:

  “I am here. You will not perish

  Alone in the dark.”

  It’s true

  The lamp of faith has gone out.

  It’s true, the trees are a thicket

  Of skeletal hands lifted to halt you.

  It’s true the strewn leaves hide

  The path. But nothing is here

  Beside you. Nothing will lead you.

  You can depend on nothing.

  To believe in nothing is the first step.

  4. Its Function

  Nothing stands between

  The abyss and you.

  Nothing keeps you

  From falling off

  The edge.

  Nothing

  Is that important.

  People think:

  “There’s always

  Something

  To chink up

  The gaping cracks

  In the ruined hut

  Of self.”

  They’re wrong.

  There’s nothing.

  5. Letting In

  I’m afraid I’ve let nothing

  Into this poem.

  It wasn’t an easy decision

  Because nothing

  Is a difficult theme.

  Of course, that’s only

  My opinion. Others

  Disagree—many say:

  Nothing is easy.

  But I know better.

  From my point of view,

  Nothing is impossible.

  That’s why I’ve tried

  To keep nothing

  Out of this poem.

  6. Some of Its Qualities

  Nothing has a heart of gold.

  Nothing waits up for you

  Way past midnight.

  Nothing thinks about you

  All the time.

  Nothing puts your interests

  First. Nothing says:

  “What would he want?”

  “What would make her

  Happy?”

  From the beginning

  Nothing was on your side.

  Nothing cares for you

  More than your own

  Mother did.

  Nothing loves you.

  7. A Friend in Peril

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,”

  She said.

  I saw right

  Then she was in trouble.

  Once nothing gets

  Inside you, it’s only

  A matter of time

  Before it’s sliding

  Along, smooth

  As the little zeros

  Of blood cells slipping

  Through your veins.

  Before you know it,

  Nothing has become

  Indispensable.

  You can’t imagine

  Life without it.

  Soon,

  Nothing is everything to you.

  8. How I Became Involved

  Quite early on, I discovered

  Noth
ing mattered to me.

  I felt nothing was near

  My heart, but also

  Integral to the universe.

  I felt nothing explained

  All the big questions:

  Suffering, the sudden

  Appearance of flowering

  Plants, the origin

  Of the cosmos. Nothing

  Answered all enigmas

  With a calm equanimity

  I myself hoped to learn.

  I modeled myself on nothing.

  Not just the nothing I held

  Close to my heart, but

  A social nothing also: if

  Nothing had been clothes,

  I would have worn nothing.

  If nothing was food, I

  Would have eaten nothing.

  If nothing was a way of talking,

  I would have said nothing.

  Nothing seemed to me

  The answer to everything.

  I remember clearly the moment

  This came to me: it was dusk

  And I was walking my dog

  On our quiet street,

  And the next thing I knew

  I’d fallen to my knees,

  Weeping for the joy of at last

  Having understood nothing.

  9. Some Facts About It

  Nothing rides a black

  Stallion big as the stars.

  Nothing lives in a silver

  City.

  Nothing makes a noise

  Like wind in the pines.

  10. My Own Conundrum

  Many people believed I was committed

  To nothing. They were wrong.

  My allegiance was half-hearted

  At best.

  I felt nothing could get

  Along without me, and at the same time

  I knew that nothing needed

  My total loyalty.

  “Ambivalence,”

  My doctor said.

  “No,” I answered,

  “A spiritual paradox that language

  Aches to reveal.

  Nothing

  Wishes to show itself to us

  And nothing stands in its way.”

 

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