Thursday

James Longenbach

1959 –

2022

Because the most difficult part about making something, also the best,

Is existing in the middle,

Sustaining an act of radical imagination,

I simmered a broth: onion, lemon, a big handful of mint.

The phone rang. So with my left

Hand I answered it,

Sautéing the rice, then adding the broth

Slowly, one ladle at a time, with my right. What’s up?

The miracle of risotto, it’s easy to miss, is the moment when the husks dissolve,

Each grain of rice releasing its tiny explosion of starch.

If you take it off the heat just then, let it sit

While you shave the parmesan into paper-thin curls,

It will be perfectly creamy,

But will still have a bite.

There will be dishes to do,

The moon will rise,

And everyone you love will be safe.

James Longenbach was the author of seven poetry collections: Seafarer (W. W. Norton, 2024), which collects his two previous works alongside new poems; Forever (W. W. Norton, 2021); Earthling (W. W. Norton, 2017), a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award; The Iron Key (W. W. Norton, 2012); Draft of a Letter (University of Chicago Press, 2007); Fleet River (University of Chicago Press, 2003); and Threshold (University of Chicago Press, 1998).

About James Longenbach

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About this Poem

“Though I’d rather make poems than anything else, I’ve discovered over the years that I really have only one way of doing things, and, on a good day, I can inhabit the primal pleasure of making almost anything. This poem tries to honor what seems to me both the meticulous work and the ineffable magic of making.”

—James Longenbach

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At the end of August, when all The letters of the alphabet are waiting, You drop a teabag in a cup. The same few letters making many different words, The same words meaning different things. Often you've rearranged them on the surface of the fridge. Without the surface They're repulsed by one another. Here are the letters. The tea is in your cup. At the end of August, the mind Is neither the pokeweed piercing the grass Nor the grass itself.

Often I walk the dog at night. Once around the block, maybe twice, And sometimes we head up to the reservoir. If it's snowing, I put a little coat on the dog, Booties if they've salted the street. Everything you need is up there. You can see for miles and you've got a lake, Not large, the water black and still. Emptiness where the city ends and farmland begins, Lights of the houses below, and if you're quiet— Sounds you couldn't actually hear. Clock ticking on the wall, pipes, A nightstand with a lamp, a desk, pencils in a cup— Then it's time for the dog to go home, Have a biscuit, g

As an older man, Graying, not stooped, I saw the future: Extremities Cold, tongue Sluggish, Foam at the lips. Excessive hope Seemed more Indulgent Than despair. I ran great distances. I stood in sunlight Just to see my shadow, Show it off. For the first time I remember My soul looked back. What other people learn From birth, Betrayal, I learned late. My soul perched On an olive branch Combing itself, Waving its plumes. I said Being mortal, I aspire to Mortal things. I need you, Said my soul, If you’re telling the truth.

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