Thursday, June 27, 2013

Unburying Amy Lowell


“Robert Lowell, writing to Elizabeth 
Bishop in the 1950s, reports a 
conversation with Robert Frost, in 
which the latter Robert said of the 
former Robert’s distant cousin, 
“somebody really ought to unbury 
Amy.”—D.A. Powell, “Amy Lowell: 
“The Garden by Moonlight,” 
Poetry Foundation

A black cat slinks in the roses—
through the leery snap-dragons and
petunias under the dark midnight moon

The sweet smells of heliotrope—
in the night-scented garden schmoozes
with opium dreams of my pretty poppies

Taking a toke from my bubbling hookah—
finding sweet asylum in the golden glow
of tip buds of alyssum flowers nearby

Swarms of blinking fireflies through—
leaves and trellises while cicadas drone
away after their long 15-year return

Moon-spikes shafting through shadows—
only the little face of my wary black cat is
as alert and staring like me tonight

Padding between the roses, stealthy and—
quiet as my beloved sleeping here next to me
drained dry by my greedy mucous slug lips

Ah, Sweetheart, do you see my orange lilies—
they knew my mother, but who will know
them when I am gone? 

No comments:

Post a Comment