Gregory Orr - The last love poem I will ever write: poems

ALSO BY GREGORY ORR Poetry River Inside the River Burning the Empty Nests Gathering the Bones Together The Red House We Must Make a Kingdom of It New and Selected Poems City of Salt Orpheus & Eurydice The Caged Owl: New and Selected Poems Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved How Beautiful the Beloved Prose A Primer for Poets and Readers of Poetry Poetry as Survival The Blessing: A Memoir Stanley Kunitz: An Introduction to the Poetry Richer Entanglements: Essays and Notes on Poetry and Poems The Last
Love Poem
I Will Ever
Write POEMS Gregory Orr Adjusting type size may change line breaks. Landscape mode may help to preserve line breaks. Copyright 2019 by Gregory Orr All rights reserved First Edition For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 500 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10110 For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact W. W.

Norton Special Sales at specialsales@wwnorton.com or 800-233-4830 Book design by JAM Design Production manager: Lauren Abbate Jacket Design by Jared Oriel The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows: Names: Orr, Gregory, author. Title: The last love poem I will ever write : poems / Gregory Orr. Description: New York : W. W. Norton & Company, [2019] Identifiers: LCCN 2018059611 | ISBN 9781324002352 (hardcover) Classification: LCC PS3565.R7 A6 2019 | DDC 811/.54dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018059611 ISBN 9781324002369 (ebook) W. W.

Norton & Company, Inc., 500 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10110 www.wwnorton.com W. W. Norton & Company Ltd., 15 Carlisle Street, London W1D 3BS FOR TRISHA Contents * * * * The Last
Love Poem
I Will Ever
Write Hes 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 brothers 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 didnt 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 wasntI 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 wasnt moving at all.

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 thered been an accident And he killed his best friend. Sad, but believableit happens More often than youd 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 riflea .22. And that same year We went hunting deer In a far field on our property And my gun, that I didnt 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 accidentthat kind Of coincidence isnt credible In fiction, much less in a poem Where youre 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, Im telling you its 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? Im happy for you if you Can explain it To your satisfaction. I cant. Im only telling you About it, because Its factual; it happened.

And because I want you to know How strange life is. No use closing my eyes Now After The lightning flash. Wince and blinding Theyre both Already inside me. The heart, altering, alters all. Sometimes, it happens and who Knows whythe world Suddenly turns ugly And decides to crush you. Dont waste time trying To understand, just fight For your life, do all you can To survive.

Thats 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 Im with you on that: By all means, lets celebrate What a doughty human can do Against impossible odds. But who says the actual Battle was the worst of it? Theres 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 Im 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, Jacobs 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? 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 elses map? Id end up half-trapped; And even the best often Just guess whats next. If Im to grow now, It will be through grieving; It will be through this Deepening I didnt choose. 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. 2. 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 hearts 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. 3. 3.