Thursday, October 18, 2012

for olivia

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,   
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys   
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:   
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.   
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor   
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;   
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,   
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove   
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits   
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window   
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish   
What I wished you before, but harder.


Brittany said...

i love this. thank you for sharing it.

parfums said...

so nice blog i like it .
Parfum pas cher

Anonymous said...

a mother's heart fills with so much love it flows, overflows
starlight filling the night

their child
does not understand
how much their pain hurts her