DeFrees - Blue Dusk: New & Selected Poems, 1951-2001
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- Book:Blue Dusk: New & Selected Poems, 1951-2001
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- Publisher:Copper Canyon Press
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- Year:2013
- City:Port Townsend
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We hope you enjoy these poems. This e-book edition was created through a special grant provided by the Paul G. Allen Family Foundation. Copper Canyon Press would like to thank Constellation Digital Services for their partnership in making this e-book possible. For all my students over the years, whose creativity and commitment to writinghave nourished my own work. Nothing exists without its complement: the orange dawn advances toward blue dusk
After twenty-three years away I wake in a Spokane convent in my Black Watch plaid pajamas daybreak, the last day of September 1996. I used to spring from bed at the bells first clang. Now theres something wrong with the bedsprings I cannot fix. Shyly, light enters, spills over the floor of the room. Holy or not, I feel more at home than in thirty-eight years I lived here. Then let me admit the light, endorse the mirror over my private sink.
Time to reopen the old account stored in the memory bank. What was I running from or into? The uneasy light of the senior prom? Mothers dream of a child bride, supported by pennies from heaven? Or was it the writing life laid as a sacrifice to a jealous god on the tomb of the woman Id hoped to become? Whatever it was, it will soon be over. I write this now to reclaim it.
The boat is made of Norwegian fir and planks of oak sheathed in greenheart. Wood so sturdy it cannot be worked by ordinary means. Adventure draws a poets crew: men of imagination able to claim, transform, and name whatever comes to hand: seals spars penguins blubber ice. The mercies of their universe are few sleep without watch that merges into death, dangers they cannot know before they are delivered. Mirage engulfs them: frost-smoke curled skyward like a prairie fire, land on the near horizon. The pressure of the ship against pack ice duplicates the pressure of a poem looking for escape through a crack in the skull.
The writer steers his craft toward open water, hoping for a lead in the frozen sea. He finds a way through the complex syntax of drift and floe and the rococo architecture of the hummocks. Follows the maze of memory to a downpour of sudden light. By night the ships photographer drives into the face of the moon. He sets a flash behind each chunk of ice that moors Endurance. Ice flowers should have telegraphed a warning.
They spread pale pink on water like a carpet of carnations. Carnations are a boutonniere in Deaths lapel but serve as well for weddings. For now Shackletons boat rides at anchor destined to go down, a bride of the sea.
Im back in seventh-grade Agriculture class. No rich farm dirt under my fingernails. Already I know by heart everything the textbook can teach me. Eager to recite, head seeded with facts for the state exam, I am on my own. Nothing and no one can touch me. But my classmates remember the studhorse mounting the brood mare.
They were with her when she dropped her foal. And the words from the book too stiff and starched like my dress almost antiseptic, will never fool them. Under cover of the desk, boys deliver rude gestures. They titter and point. I try to be nonchalant, keep my grip on the reins, feet in the stirrups, star in the onlookers role.
Everywhere else is pitch-black except the red EXITs. I am alone in this huge space with the cousin I adore: starstruck watching the glow pick up the white, open-necked shirt of my hero, follow the curve of his throat upward and, like a misplaced halo, drown in his dark hair. Hes eleven years older, cousin not really my cousin, son of my mothers adoptive brother. A fact my neighbor points out: You might grow up and marry Arnold. Right now, I focus on his hands, fingers assured as those of Jos Feliciano, blind from birth. My fingers turn up at the ends.
Piano hands, Arnold says, proposing we trade. When a man asks a woman for her hand, doesnt that mean something? What we have in common: the Kings English, the French words Arnold taught me. At home, orchestra members will gather to play their newest toy flute, trumpet, or clarinet on Arnolds arrangements. In her easy chair beauty parlor, my little sister will climb onto the drummers lap to comb his thick brown curls. And for the seventeenth time, Arnold will go over the correct fingering for the song Im determined to learn.
I thank them for partial release from my winter prison. Constellations of small, pale birds grace notes on a steel clef read a perennial score, riff of a new season. When I pause for the seventh time by the south window, cascades of cabbage butterflies arrange themselves in bridal bouquets, fly off with my cabbage heart. Later, their scent will grow sweeter, their honey-vanilla fragrance freight the air. Watching them shiver and hover brings back Ann Lovejoys glimmer of undiluted joy as I hear white water churn over the hard falls into the holding pool of the souls wide summer.
Each time the doorbell rings, the Sister Portress glides over the gleaming hardwood of the foyer to greet the families come for their allotted forty-five minutes a month. Ever the Guardian Angel, she seats the guests, goes back to wait for others. From the practice room off the parlor, Cole Porters Night and Day seeps under the door, flows over the transom as my cousin Arnold begins to play my favorite song: the forbidden worldly music. Orchestra member, composer, arranger, this is the cousin who knows how to transpose on sight. And now the shadow of the portress crosses the frosted glass. Quickly, Arnold coaxes the upright piano into a classic stance, modulates smoothly into the Paderewski Minuet in G.
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