Theodora Goss: Poems

Thoughts in the Roman Baths
by Theodora Goss

In the city of Aqua Sulis, presided over
by Minerva of the Waters, in a corner,
carved into stone predating the Roman city,
are three mysterious figures, a triple deity,
the goddess of the Celts, whose names we no longer
remember. But what the archaeologists tell us
is that she was worshiped, or rather they (being triple),
throughout the Celtic lands from time immemorial,
until the Roman goddess strode in, Minerva,
as arrogant, in her armor, as any centurion,
and took the city for her own. Oh Minerva!
You are such a child beside these ancient figures,
as ancient as the Fates, who predate Zeus.
Perhaps they are the Fates themselves, who formed
the earth and set it floating on the waters
of Night, which bubble up in the blessed springs
in which we bath ourselves, worshiping the goddess
Minerva Sulis, forgetting that they come
from her, originally, the triple goddess
whose names we have forgotten, yet who holds
our lives in her capable hands from our watery births
until our deaths, and to whose endless streams
we will return, slipping out of our bodies
and into her immensity like fish . . .

(The image is my photograph of the Celtic Triple Goddess at Aqua Sulis.)

Little English Houses
by Theodora Goss

Little English houses,
red and white, white and red.
Somewhere a good child
is laying her head
on a linen pillow,
and hollyhocks bloom
all across the linen,
all around her room,
climbing up the wallpaper
so that she sleeps
in a secret garden,
a secret English garden,
while out the window,
in the garden below,
hollyhocks are growing,
red and white, white and red,
all around the houses,
the little English houses
sleeping in the sunshine,
dreaming in the sunshine,
as in the room above,
softly, gently, deeply,
dreaming of a garden
with hollyhock and roses,
red and white hollyhocks,
roses striped red and white,
smiling as she dreams
of a secret garden,
the little girl sleeps.

(The image is Flowering Hollyhocks by George Baxter.)

What the Oak Tree Said
by Theodora Goss

I have not written a poem
in a long time, she said.
Why not now? said the oak tree.
She sat among its roots, which spread
out over the grass.
In their crevices grew bits of moss,
grass and moss, green on green,
like the oak leaves above, still bright
with spring, and in the branches of the oak
the robins were singing.

She said, but I have not written
a poem in such a long time. I’m not sure
I remember how. The oak tree said,
I am writing poems all the time.
My roots are a poem and the grass is a poem
and the moss is a poem and my leaves are a poem —
look how cleverly I have arranged them along my branches
as they sway in the wind, and the hollow at the bottom
of my trunk, filled with old leaves and darkness,
is a poem, and the sky gray with rain clouds —
and the robins, of course, annoying as they can be,
each of them is a poem.

You are a better writer than me, she said.
Naturally, said the oak.
But try anyway.

(The image is Girl Reading Under an Oak Tree by Winslow Homer.)

Lucy Strange
by Theodora Goss

Lucy Strange went up to town
wearing a raincoat over her nightgown,
carrying a lantern, leading a goat —
she went first by train and then by boat.
She put the lantern on her head.
I am a beacon, Lucy said.

Lucy Strange was the queerest girl —
she had our senses in a whirl.
She turn our reasons upside down —
her tears were laughter, her smile a frown.
We clapped when she came and lamented her going —
all the clocks chimed and the river stopped flowing,

the cats refused to chase the mice,
the hens laid blue eggs, the sun rose twice,
every day was a Saturday —
we went to church but forgot to pray.
Her time with us was all too brief —
we grieved her departure but felt relief.

Lucy Strange, we remember you still.
You stood in your nightgown on top of the hill —
your lantern shone like a star in the night,
you stretched out your arms and then took flight,
rising up to the firmament —
we watched, amazed, as up you went.

And now you shine like the brightest star
and we are back to the way we were —
except that the clocks refuse to chime
and our children only speak in rhyme
and a black goat sings on the roof of the grange —
that is your legacy, Lucy Strange.

(The image is a painting by Wladyslaw Theodor Benda.)

Wild Geese
by Theodora Goss

The cries of the wild geese are spring,
are returning
warmth and growth and light,
are the promise of apples ripening on the branch
and crickets singing in the summer night,
are hope in flight.

Every year I hear them I am older
and yet reborn –
each year is another step closer to the last, and yet
also, somehow, a new dawn,
a new awakening beneath the eternal sky
that arches over us all,
the mother through whose blue body the wild geese
northering call.

(The image is a woodblock print of wild geese by Ohara Koson.)

The Dictator Fears Death
by Theodora Goss

He tried to put his name
on bridges, tunnels, terminals,
in gilded letters carved into the stone
of monuments, insisted he alone
could build the country, could construct
the future, that his fame
would long outlast the memory
of his prison camps, his masked police,
the children that his policies
had starved of air and light,
the general devastation and the blight
of toppled trees, of streams that ran
with waste, the fearful night
of his harsh reign. As long as, painted gold,
his name shone out from pediments,
his face appeared on mountainsides,
his statues filled the public squares,
his portraits hung in galleries.
His omnipresence guaranteed
a kind of immortality.

Alas, how inexorably
history moves on. Amid the rubble
of his triumph, he was laid beneath the only
stone that still bore his name,
where, beneath the loam,
the worms, in their fashion,
celebrated him.

(The image is Entrance to the Temple of Luxor by Louis Haghe.)

The Witch Makes Her To-Do List
by Theodora Goss

Check on the frogs
in the pond, especially the one
with the crooked leg, who can’t hop as far
as the others. Ask them
how they are doing, whether the dragonflies
are plentiful this year, if any of them
have turned into princes lately.
They always croak at that, which is their way
of laughing.

Bring in the laundry — the cotton sheets
a resident ghost likes to play in, the pillowcases
scented with lavender
that will ensure only good dreams,
your black turtleneck and faded blue jeans,
your peasant blouses and a tiered skirt
the color of autumn leaves,
crimson and yellow and brown,
suitable for an afternoon in town
doing research at the public library or meeting
customers for your custom face creams
and love potions (the most popular
makes any woman fall in love
with herself — tricky to mix, that).
Try to find your crocheted hat, which must be
where you left it, but somehow isn’t.
Count the socks. If any have gone missing,
speak to them sternly. Really,
they’re supposed to keep track of each other!
Yet they never do.

Sweep the house. Sweep out
the old energy, which has gone dull
and stale. Sweep in the cold, clear air
of autumn. Sweep in time
to do the things you need to before winter
comes. Sweep in joy, and a fresh start
to the new week. While you are at it,
sweep out your heart
and open its windows for a while.

Gather herbs from the garden —
hyssop, fennel, rue. Tell the rabbits
they will rue the day they ate all the carrot tops.
Laugh at your own joke, share it
with the spider sitting at the center of her web
between the fenceposts. She will stare at you
with her black eyes, all eight of them — tough audience.
Check and make sure that damn cat
isn’t bothering the birds. “No flying on the broomstick
if I find feathers!” you’ve told her.
You’re pretty sure she’s been chewing the corners
of your magical books, and also the Agatha Christies
in revenge, but she insists it’s moths.

Make the teas and tinctures:
comfrey, yarrow, valerian. Bottle them
in small glass bottles, stopper them with wax,
label them in a neat, sloping hand,
the way you were taught to write in primary school
by a very strict Mrs. Johnson.
Sprinkle sage over the wooden floor
to keep away the mice. They’re so annoying,
waking you up at night with their endless chatter.
Afterward, clean the kitchen.
Dust the jars labeled Midsummer Morning Dew,
Maiden’s Sweat, Unicorn Urine, Water
From a Well That Has Always Been in Shadow,
Tears (mixed), Fears (assorted),
Rose Petal Essence (not from concentrate).
Remember to dust the tray of butterfly wings,
the stack of bones you gathered in the forest,
the bowl of random keys, including piano.
Feed the coyote skeleton you found one summer.
He can’t really eat, poor thing,
but he likes to pretend. With a jewelry cloth, polish
the moonstone globe that reflects various phases
of the moon and foretells the future — as long
as it’s not too distant, but sometimes
it’s just as useful to know what will happen soon.
When you’re done, make a mug of ginger tea
and rest for a while.

Bicycle into town
wearing the tiered skirt, a warm coat,
a scarf that flies out behind you. Along the way,
shout “Hello!” to the chestnut and linden trees.
They will wave their leaves back at you, saying
sleepily, Sister, we hope you’re well.
Say a spell under your breath for their continued
good health, for no worms or blight,
for quiet nights under the snow so when the sun
returns, when warmth comes again, they will awaken
renewed. Because after all, winter
is better than any face cream
for smoothing out the wrinkles of the world.
Stop at the library for that book on summoning
the Spirit of Inspiration or a volume of Mary Oliver,
whichever works better, the grocery store
for peppermint chip ice cream
and tuna for that damn cat,
because after all she’s your damn cat, your Serafina,
who curls up next to you on autumn evenings,
warmer than a hot water bottle,
who remembers the words to spells
as well as classic rock ballads
when you seem to have forgotten them,
and can always find your mislaid reading glasses.
Maybe you’ll take her flying after all,
then watch Murder She Wrote on television.
Drop off a jar of ointment for old Miss Bridges,
who has rheumatism and trusts you more
than her doctor, although you remind her to take
her heart medication. “It’s not a competition,”
you tell her. On your way back,
stop to gossip with the squirrels, who always seem
to know what’s going on, those furry rascals,
rats with extravagant tails, but really quite clever.

Make dinner. Play scrabble with Serafina
and the ghost, who knows seventeenth-century words
you have to look up in an ancient dictionary.
It looks like rain, so make plans for flying tomorrow
to gather water vapor from the clouds
hanging around the mountains —
your Unfallen Rain bottle is getting low,
and it’s such a useful ingredient for minor curses.

Before you go to sleep,
check on the bats
in the attic. Are they comfortable,
hanging together, their furred bodies
next to each other, upside down
like a row of inverted coats,
their delicate ears
quivering? What have they heard
from the universe lately?
What’s the news?

(The image is The Witch’s Daughter by Carl Larsson.)