Aftermath: Poems by Sandra M. Gilbert PDF

By Sandra M. Gilbert

ISBN-10: 0393081125

ISBN-13: 9780393081121

Sandra Gilbert's poems are superbly positioned on the intersection of craft and feeling.—Billy CollinsThe identify of this collection—at occasions mournful, sardonic, and joyous—refers to the grief within the wake of loss. but those poems aren't with reference to the implications of loss but additionally in regards to the advanced stories of patience, acquiescence, and rebirth that, with good fortune, mark the aftermath of sorrow. from "Aftermath: Kite"       But the idea is simply paper in spite of everything,       a soul that adheres to a stick, tears open, shreds       as if it really is flung to the floor in a last glossy fall,       and eventually the road is going limp, the hiking ends.       Beyond the push & sweep, an arc of silence—       though a brain imagined this flight, & proved it as soon as.

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We sat at the California wedding feast, chicken bones on our plates. "How," I began. . The little wrinkled cancer-riddled Danish mother lay at home, reading, and wheezing now and then. We mopped our plates with crusts of bread. The bride and groom were cutting into the first thick layer of cake. In Jutland foxes barked among the hills. The daughter wore silky red and black, and on the misty island of Fan0, where the mother was born, the tall waves of the North Sea broke and broke. �9 How ' WE DIDN T TELL HER that the housekeeper said that the gardener said that someone named Jean or Jeannie or Jenny who was his friend or maybe his boss had said that today that just today he was hit by a car & he was killed he died at once in the prime of his handsome youth he who was her youngest her onetime baby ice-cream cone with dimpled arms & scrumptious tummy he who gardened & prayed for purity on earth but we said let's wait let's 30 wait to tell her till we're sure & we called the gardener the housekeeper the irrigation lady the police the coroner the highway patrol the neighbors we called everyone but her until at last the gardener said no no how could the housekeeper get it so wrong it wasn't him it was someone else who was hit by a car& killed today & we rejoiced & were glad we hadn't told her because his handsome flesh his pulsing prime returned to us as a gift more precious than before & as for the other one, the other mother's son who really died 31 today we let him go we didn't give him another thought.

The little wrinkled cancer-riddled Danish mother lay at home, reading, and wheezing now and then. We mopped our plates with crusts of bread. The bride and groom were cutting into the first thick layer of cake. In Jutland foxes barked among the hills. The daughter wore silky red and black, and on the misty island of Fan0, where the mother was born, the tall waves of the North Sea broke and broke. �9 How ' WE DIDN T TELL HER that the housekeeper said that the gardener said that someone named Jean or Jeannie or Jenny who was his friend or maybe his boss had said that today that just today he was hit by a car & he was killed he died at once in the prime of his handsome youth he who was her youngest her onetime baby ice-cream cone with dimpled arms & scrumptious tummy he who gardened & prayed for purity on earth but we said let's wait let's 30 wait to tell her till we're sure & we called the gardener the housekeeper the irrigation lady the police the coroner the highway patrol the neighbors we called everyone but her until at last the gardener said no no how could the housekeeper get it so wrong it wasn't him it was someone else who was hit by a car& killed today & we rejoiced & were glad we hadn't told her because his handsome flesh his pulsing prime returned to us as a gift more precious than before & as for the other one, the other mother's son who really died 31 today we let him go we didn't give him another thought.

Our youngest isn't happy, & the light of spring casts a chill on the cut narcissi that I flung across the stone where your name still burns an eerie white as if you could rise between its bars, above the wilted flowers, the deepening marks that say 43 I lie among shadows with another man, she lies alone with hope & dread-& you, no longer you, you lie with the solemn spinning things that move the light of March into its own decay. L. G. 44 THE ANNIVERSARY mustn't be worded or worried any more now that two cycles of seven have passed away and moon by sun by week by quickening year I too have passed past too much memory­ And whose was the anniversary anyway?

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Aftermath: Poems by Sandra M. Gilbert


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