Saturday, April 30, 2011

IN A MOUNTAIN CRADLE TWO FRIENDS BLOOM



(Six Lines Purloined from Liesel Mueller, Altered for a Pantoume)



Two Friends
(For N.A & M.S.)
by Ms

I imagine the two of them sitting in a garden,
among late-blooming roses, and dark cascades of leaves,
letting the landscape speak for them, and pardon,
leaving us nothing to overhear.  They are bound sheaves.

Among late-blooming roses, and dark cascades of leaves,
In a mountain-cradled, walled-in, outdoor room,
leaving us nothing to overhear, they are bound sheaves,
close together in that temporal womb.

In that mountain-cradled, walled-in, outdoor room,
passing sacred secrets between sheltered hearts,
close together in that temporal womb,
parsing feelings minutely down to detailed parts.

Passing sacred secrets between sheltered hearts.
they keep the threads straight, through multiple stories,
parsing feelings minutely down to detailed parts,
their sadness, and all their joys, like morning glories.

They keep the threads straight, through multiple stories,
holding to their inward gaze, they retell each right and wrong-
their sadness and all their joys, like morning glories,
open at dawn for the dew, then gently close for evening song.

Holding to their inward gaze, they retell each right and wrong-
emboldened by tender understanding, there they bloom,
open at dawn for the dew, then gently close for evening song,
cradled in the secluded security of an outdoor room.

Their seasons shift.  The barometer, and breath, lifts, or falls.
They are letting the landscape speak for them, and pardon.
Sharing themselves deeply, safe, secure within those walls,
I imagine the two of them sitting in a garden.


Inspiration 
Romantics by Lisel Mueller
(
Johannes Brahms and Clara Schumann) 

The modern biographers worry
“how far it went,” their tender friendship.
They wonder just what it means
when he writes he thinks of her constantly,
his guardian angel, beloved friend.
The modern biographers ask
the rude, irrelevant question
of our age, as if the event
of two bodies meshing together
establishes the degree of love,
forgetting how softly Eros walked
in the nineteenth-century, how a hand
held overlong or a gaze anchored
in someone’s eyes could unseat a heart,
and nuances of address not known
in our egalitarian language
could make the redolent air
tremble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility. Each time I hear
the Intermezzi, sad
and lavish in their tenderness,
I imagine the two of them
sitting in a garden
among late-blooming roses
and dark cascades of leaves,
letting the landscape speak for them,
leaving us nothing to overheard.



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