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Musing: 84. The season of our wooing, a stillness now

Musing
84. The season of our wooing, a stillness now

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Notes

table of contents
  1. Cover
  2. Introduction
  3. 1. The boughs lay withered beyond the brow
  4. 2. What is not said in the garden
  5. 3. The sparrow on the trough is world enough
  6. 4. The garden in the ruined abbey brims
  7. 5. Your face was the chalk in these hills
  8. 6. The fen stretches out like prairie, the canals
  9. 7. They married looking out to sea, the west
  10. 8. All from the stars the shards fell, light condensed
  11. 9. The winter of our breath was the blue
  12. 10. So the wind was on your sleeve: you asked me
  13. 11. Taboo in the stem of my skull, the danger
  14. 12. You sang, black Madonna, your breasts more perfect
  15. 13. The cusp of the dark falls on Central Park
  16. 14. Breath, too, can plummet, magic rougher
  17. 15. The aspersion she cast cuts deep: the times
  18. 16. Impostors shape fictions of marrow and soul
  19. 17. Son, you were allergic to filberts then
  20. 18. Daughter, you are more delicate
  21. 19. Vexation burned when the sun beat on the waves
  22. 20. The tongue is spare: the wind lifts on the dirt road
  23. 21. This harvest is the sap that moves in us
  24. 22. The dog beyond the gate barked, as if
  25. 23. If joy could screeve from lung and marrow
  26. 24. You sculch my secret signs, as though I illude
  27. 25. The scree on the beach was lost in your breath
  28. 26. The renitency of the will opposes all
  29. 27. The sea scrubs the rock, the clouds on the cape
  30. 28. The turquoise water is not faked on a postcard
  31. 29. The windows of the moon have cast
  32. 30. They were quartering us in these streets
  33. 31. There was a window on the stars, the cusp
  34. 32. Keel, mast, sail in wind, sea, sky shake and bend
  35. 33. Her pale hair stumbled in the wood, and he rode
  36. 34. There was jazz playing in a room away
  37. 35. The winds rise over the plain outside Paris
  38. 36. Till we fled Calais these two terrains
  39. 37. Window night-frame time of the moon
  40. 38. I have washed too many I have watched
  41. 39. There were stones there were knives
  42. 40. It’s not custom to begin with the couplet
  43. 41. The angles of the moon over, through those trees
  44. 42. The absence of your breath heats my marrow
  45. 43. The embarrassment of words abandons us
  46. 44. The hawthorn trembles in rain and ice
  47. 45. Just when it seems she will sing deport
  48. 46. Through the threshold the pollen draws, the light
  49. 47. And yet the morning light held you, the cuts
  50. 48. When I was young the world was young: you know
  51. 49. It would be as the wind, but some force
  52. 50. This night, like the vanity of death
  53. 51. Palm trees came to France in 1864
  54. 52. Freezing to death is not an act of love
  55. 53. Your arms are not a trope, and hyperbole
  56. 54. Flint, outcrop, overhang: I made my way
  57. 55. So much depends on the glibness of words
  58. 56. I am not certain: je ne suis pas sûr
  59. 57. When Venus moved her headquarters, she sighed
  60. 58. The closer to the ground, the more fictional
  61. 59. Silent devotion at first light, wind
  62. 60. Those catacombs, stacked with skulls and bones
  63. 61. The way trains move, poetry moves
  64. 62. I have a whole cache I will one day
  65. 63. You see before you a man more ridiculous
  66. 64. In your eyes along the streets can I see
  67. 65. A Romanesque bridge joins one hill
  68. 66. Dusk falls over a land cut and crossed
  69. 67. The country is not pastoral: it was
  70. 68. Nostalgia and utopia, past and future
  71. 69. The nuclear power plants smoke over the land
  72. 70. The clouds lie over the land near Avignon
  73. 71. The cars on the rail line are stacked up
  74. 72. Another poet scoffed when I said
  75. 73. Why is it the poplar leaves turn in the sun
  76. 74. Made of systems? Love and justice have lost out
  77. 75. The warehouses, spills, heaps, strews, broken waste
  78. 76. On an outcrop in Central Park, we talk
  79. 77. Girders and glass roofs extend at round
  80. 78. Who would hear me above the surf, the remains
  81. 79. The dead stars rise over the ridge, the garden
  82. 80. My heart is even lonelier than my face
  83. 81. Winter has its verges, not a green snow
  84. 82. Roses are more gorgeous than us: we are as birds
  85. 83. Remember our mothers who bore us
  86. 84. The season of our wooing, a stillness now
  87. 85. World, breath, disinherited us, even
  88. 86. A certain happiness exists despite
  89. 87. Ropes, planks, cups, lines, buckets, tiles, fieldstones
  90. 88. Pain like bread breaks and tears, and in France
  91. 89. Our whatever is an asymptote and not
  92. 90. It is not as if the sun and I
  93. 91. The white cliffs above Cassis
  94. 92. The shadows of the evening still across
  95. 93. For him, there is only one poet: his wife
  96. 94. Something rebarbative lives in this life
  97. 95. These eyes, joints, gums ache with an age
  98. 96. You watch the dying light after the star
  99. 97. There’s something about a train that is like
  100. 98. On the brink of simile I faced
  101. 99. Your heart is knapped flint, or is it mine?
  102. 100. Love is a Stonehenge, virtual to some
  103. 101. The hills are burial mounds: the oaks drape
  104. 102. The Georgian calms the world about, hills slant
  105. 103. The speculation of music has
  106. 104. We rose from dust on a day not of our
  107. 105. The wind was slapping the water, and the surf
  108. 106. What of the furtive thief of love stealing
  109. 107. You don’t have to be Richard the Third
  110. 108. How to keep the deep fluster and rush
  111. 109. The barges slip along the Seine, the wind has died
  112. Acknowledgements
  113. Index of First Lines
  114. About the Author

84.

The season of our wooing, a stillness now,

So frantic, bursting, pollinating then,

Makes nothing of twenty years. It is something

To us. Are stories enough of an argument

To say we were and are and will be?

Love is more than coffee spoons, even if

I gushed like a peach. This brain is getting

Too old for visions. Love poems are not

Self-help manuals. What do I know

That everyone else does not? I just happen

To have an ear and a pen at hand, a little

Like Bottom, to dream love is more than an ass

Nothing I can say is enough to celebrate

Fate, fortune, dumb luck, pleasure — meeting you.

Annotate

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85. World, breath, disinherited us, even
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