after Sailing to Byzantium<\/em>, W.B. Yeats, 1926<\/font><\/p>\n What with all the mackerel, and the trees full of birds The last to leave \u2013 white-haired, patrician \u2013 sits shawl-wrapped In fine fettle for a dying generation<\/em>, he mutters, Don’t get me wrong, the forward one says to her mate, <\/p>\n after The Jewel Stairs’ Grievance<\/em>, Ezra Pound, 1915<\/font> <\/p>\n Soon as the balcony Benedictus<\/em> is done, the pigeons in St. Peter’s Square rise as one. Climb its angle of lean: The higher you go, the nearer to ground. Slant-dizzy, I crouch close to the moss of them. Similar to the parodic green I think of the woman whose lover’s footfalls failed My groom’s gone on to the top of the tilt.<\/p>\n This is the kind of circumstance where a list could calm. I should have done the kings and queens of England. They last longer. <\/p>\n after The Waves<\/em>, Virginia Woolf<\/font><\/p>\n He could never keep our names straight. They went, mother and father, brother and brother, Where I live now, there are boats hauled up-shore. Open <\/b> Notes<\/strong><\/p>\n “Sorting Stockings, Italy”: Pound’s translation of Rihaku’s “The Jewel Stairs’ Grievance” appeared in Cathay<\/em> (1915), translations of classical Chinese poems by Li Po and others. My poem changes the wording slightly. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Girls Rowing after Sailing to Byzantium, W.B. Yeats, 1926 What with all the mackerel, and the trees full of birds the left-behind elderly women still see possibility though it’s no country for old men, or so they say, having listened long to the sages or figured themselves in that way. The last to leave \u2013 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":48,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[379,380],"tags":[388],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\nthe left-behind elderly women still see possibility
\nthough it’s no country for old men<\/em>, or so they say,
\nhaving listened long to the sages
\nor figured themselves in that way. <\/p>\n
\non the middle thwart. Four rowers \u2013 two aft, two in the prow.<\/p>\n
\nknowing how those Achillean arms could warm
\na man’s waist. He tries to concentrate on the Bosporus,
\nits little waves. <\/p>\n
\nI like wind-up birds, but let’s try to be back by evening
\nthe salmon will be leaping over the fish-ladder
\nthe old women singing
\nthe tatters in their dress becoming.<\/p>\nSorting Stockings, Italy<\/h5>\n
\nMy love and I take the overnight to Pisa. <\/p>\n
\nThe paradox of effort in a column of damp stones. <\/p>\n
\non the limestones of Cimitero S. Michele where Pound’s buried.
\nHis marker horizontal. Olga right next to him.
\nHeathcliff and Catherine, for real.<\/p>\n
\nto follow her up the stairs: It is so late<\/em>, she said,
\nthe jewelled steps are already white with dew,
\nsoaking my gauze stockings<\/em>. Something like that.<\/p>\n
\nSorting stockings should do: Lyle, such as old women used to wear.
\nRibbed cotton for small girls. Nylon, of course. Gauze, the thinnest of silk,
\nif it’s translucence the wearer’s after. Little good it did her.
\nWool, for when the marriage’s over.<\/p>\n
\nLasting’s what’s on my mind: Will we ever see ground together
\nor, alternatively, rise as one?<\/p>\nWe are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.<\/h5>\n
\nMake a cup of tea, would you, Sophie<\/em>, when I wasn’t.
\nOr he knew something we didn’t.<\/p>\n
\nsister and brother the long coast way. Six, in as many years.
\nThat stretch of leavetaking that left the rest of us edged in mist.
\nThe shapes of us indistinct, sifting through one another. The single
\nplenary now. Lessened or enlarged
\ndepending on how you feel about given names.
\nBe them, for them<\/em>, we said, in our one voice.<\/p>\n
\nto the elements. Letters missing from their painted-on names \u2013
\nThe Belle, The Hope<\/em> \u2013 that sort of thing.
\nFlakes of caulking over the beach pebble. Flux of light.
\n<\/b\/><\/p>\n