Her eyes were hard
And his bitter
As they sat and watched
The fire fade
From the ashes of their love. 
Then they turned
And saw the naked autumn wind 
Shake the bare autumn trees, 
And each one thought
As the cold came in—
........‘‘It might have been”........

And if my heart be scarred and burned, 
The safer, I, for all I learned; 
The calmer, I, to see it true 
That ways of love are never new— 
The love that sets you daft and dazed 
Is every love that ever blazed; 
The happier, I, to fathom this: 
A kiss is every other kiss. 
The reckless vow, the lovely name, 
When Helen walked, were spoke the same; 
The weighted breast, the grinding woe, 
When Phaon fled, were ever so. 
Oh, it is sure as it is sad 
That any lad is every lad, 
And what’s a girl, to dare implore 
Her dear be hers forevermore? 
Though he be tried and he be bold, 
And swearing death should he be cold, 
He’ll run the path the others went.…
But you, my sweet, are different.

Merry Christmas,
you are far away.

              Today I read

a story about a fawn
named Pippin
who was adopted

by a Great Dane
named Kate.

               Pippin is me.

Her baby spots
look like a white out
sneeze.

              You are Kate.

The white diamond on her chest
is exactly where her heart is.

              Don’t you love

how dogs are designed
this way? Don’t you think

              it’s odd
how humans haven’t
grown a new skin

to adapt
to our environment?
No tortoise shell, no chameleon
color. Only the emotional
layer. Let’s call it
the cry-a-dermis.

              Today I read

that when a cardinal
sees himself in the mirror
he tries to squawk
his reflection away.
The cardinal does not
migrate, packs no suitcase.
He has no need to load gifts
into the back seat
of the car and worry
about tearing
the foil paper.

              I learned

that when a bird
flies into your house
death is coming.
This is why nobody
invites the cardinal
home for the holidays.

Merry Christmas,
you are not here.

              There are only

so many things I can put
in the care package:

poems scented
like rose perfume
and toner, recipes for soup,

a clove cigarette
              half-smoked because
it’s too cold here
to finish it outside,

a clipping from the local paper
about a fight between
neighbors over shoveling snow
and a privacy fence
in the front yard.

I have so many things
to tell you.

Write me back.

I will tell you what
it will be like
               when I tell them to you.

If thou shouldst return with the sweet words of love,
    So earnestly spoken that day,
Methinks that thy words, this sad heart would move,
    For my pride has melted away;
And I’ve learned how true was the heart that I spurned,
And I’ve longed for the face that never returned.

If thou shouldst return to claim me thy bride,
    How gladly thy fate would I share;
How gladly I’d spend my whole life at thy side,
    How honored I’d feel to be there;
Oh, I’ve learned to revere the heart that I spurned!
    And I long for the face that never returned.

If thou shouldst return, ah, vain is the dream!
    I’ll cherish the fancy no more;
Though dark and forsaken my pathway may seem,
I’ll press bravely on as before;
    And trust in the One who forgives our mistakes,
And heals the deep wounds that our waywardness makes.

He piles her boxes in the courtyard under

a tarp, the bookshelves, microwave, spare phone,

and though his friends make clear they wonder

why he would help her move, he says, “It’s fine.

I want to save her money, help her out.”

And he does—helps her move out, feeling weight

tear at his muscles. Now he is without

her things. They are inside the truck, her freight,

then on the freeway, then in her new flat,

then gone. He’s glad to ache in shoulder blades

and arms. It means that though she’s left him flat,

left him behind like old footprints, he’s made 

a choice as well, to move her, remove her,

a choice to move past, not be moved by her.

 

^{translated from the French of Judith Gautier by James Whitall}

Before daybreak the breezes whisper 
through the trellis at my window;
they interrupt and carry off my dream, 
and he of whom I dreamed 
vanishes from me. 

I climb upstairs 
to look from the topmost window, 
but with whom? . . .

I remember how I used to stir the fire 
with my hairpin of jade 
as I am doing now . . .
but the brasier holds nothing but ashes. 

I turn to look at the mountain; 
there is a thick mist, 
a dismal rain, 
and I gaze down at the wind-dappled river, 
the river that flows past me forever 
without bearing away my sorrow. 

I have kept the rain of my tears 
on the crape of my tunic; 
with a gesture I fling these bitter drops 
to the wild swans on the river, 
that they may be my messengers.

Les Cygnes Sauvages

^{translated from the Chinese of Li Qingzhao by Judith Gautier}

Le vent souffle, avant l’aube, au dehors, sur les treillis de ma fenêtre.

Il interrompt et emporte mon rêve, il efface tout vestige de lui.

Pour voir aux alentours, je monte à l’étage supérieur . . . avec qui? . . .

Autrefois, je me souviens, du bout de l’épingle en jade de ma coiffure, je remuais le feu,

Comme je le fais à présent . . . mais le brasero est éteint.

Je tourne la tête vers la montagne: la pluie, un épais brouillard.

Je regarde vers le fleuve, tout bossué de vagues; le fleuve qui coule toujours, devant moi, sans emporter ma peine.

Sur le crêpe de ma tunique, j’ai gardé la pluie de mes larmes;

D’une chiquenaude, je chasse ces gouttes amères vers les cygnes du fleuve, pour qu’ils soient mes messagers.

浪淘沙·帘外五更风

帘外五更风，
吹梦无踪。
画楼重上与谁同？
记得玉钗斜拨火，
宝篆成空。

回首紫金峰，
雨润烟浓。
一江春浪醉醒中。
留得罗襟前日泪，
弹与征鸿。

Upon a path we lingered
When skies were overcast,
She knew not I was doubting
If love had come at last.

In her I felt arising
The pity Christ thought of––
To me naught else did matter
If only she could love.

To me unkind was pity,
And hurting, gratitude,
My love was more than kindness,
For thanks from her too good.

She said in lasting friendship
How happy we could be––
She did not know her hatred
Less painful were to me.

I said if love she could not,
’T were better to forget,
That in the flush of summer,
Upon that lane we met.

Your words dropped into my heart like pebbles into a pool,
Rippling around my breast and leaving it melting cool.

Your kisses fell sharp on my flesh like dawn-dews from the limb
Of a fruit-filled lemon tree when the day is young and dim.

Like soft rain-christened sunshine, as fragile as rare gold lace,
Your breath, sweet-scented and warm, has kindled my tranquil face.

But a silence vasty-deep, oh deeper than all these ties
Now, through the menacing miles, brooding between us lies.

And more than the songs I sing, I await your written word,
To stir my fluent blood as never your presence stirred.

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
    Dark like me—
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
    Black like me.

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, 
  The road is forlorn all day, 
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, 
  And the hoof-prints vanish away. 
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
  Expend their bloom in vain. 
Come over the hills and far with me, 
  And be my love in the rain. 

The birds have less to say for themselves 
  In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves, 
  Although they are no less there: 
All song of the woods is crushed like some 
  Wild, easily shattered rose. 
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
  Where the boughs rain when it blows. 

There is the gale to urge behind 
  And bruit our singing down, 
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind 
  From which to gather your gown.    
What matter if we go clear to the west, 
  And come not through dry-shod? 
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast 
  The rain-fresh goldenrod. 

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells   
  But it seems like the sea’s return 
To the ancient lands where it left the shells 
  Before the age of the fern; 
And it seems like the time when after doubt 
  Our love came back amain.      
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout 
  And be my love in the rain.

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
’Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

              10

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea