Theodora Goss: Poems

The Beech Trees
by Theodora Goss

I was sitting among beech trees,
older than me, older than the houses around
the perimeter of the park,
with lace curtain, walls of mellow brick
dating from the last century,
but the beech trees were older,
from when this land was still wilderness,
and I had a thought, that this too —
this time we were living in — would pass,
and I would pass, and you
(but me first, hopefully),
while the beech trees would remain.
And that thought
brought me a sense of peace
deeper than understanding,
as though I were seated on sacred ground.

(The image is A Girl by a Beech Tree in a Landscape by George Price Boyce.)

The Fairies’ Gifts
by Theodora Goss

The fairies came to my christening.
They were not invited — my family,
not being royalty, did not know
any fairies personally.
They just showed up, as fairies
do sometimes.

One was older, about four centuries old,
the other was younger, less than a century,
a teenager, in fairy years. She
was the older one’s apprentice.
What shall we give the baby? she asked
the older. Fairies always bring gifts,
for better or worse.

They were both dressed
in diaphanous things: thistledown, moonshine,
spider silk, the wishes children make, the vows
made by ardent lovers, fairytale ever-afters,
the wind as it blows through birches.
They both had wings,
like moths.

What do you suggest? asked the older.
The younger recognized this as a test.

Beauty? she said, looking at her mentor
nervously. Grace? Oh, I know. Let her be smart
and good at sums. Or maybe the ability
to play any instrument, carry a tune . . .
The older shook her head.
All those things can be learned, she said.
Let us give her, between us, courage
and the ability to endure.

(The image is by Edmund Dulac.)

Guinevere and Lancelot
by Theodora Goss

I did not know
a love like this was possible,
said Guinevere to Lancelot.
It will bring down the kingdom
and the king, it will consume everything.

Lancelot replied
with a sorrowful look, putting
aside his book, you and I will burn
with passion and desire
until we are ash. How could that fire
not spread to the high towers of Camelot?
And yet, I would not give up
one touch of your hand
to save all England.

Nor I, said Guinevere,
bending her head, ashamed
and yet relieved it had been said.

(The image is Guinevere and Lancelot by Arthur Augustus Dixon.)

Head of Aphrodite
Cyprus, 510 B.C.
by Theodora Goss

All the beautiful figures
rising from the waves, long toes
gripping foam, arms raised
to accept garlands of flowers,
covered by their own golden hair
or borrowed drapery, diaphanous as mist
over rosy flesh, all these
Aphrodites, Renaissance to pre-Raphaelite,
resolve themselves into her:
the ancient head, weighty limestone,
with an enigmatic almost-Etruscan smile,
reminding you that love is the oldest
of the gods, capable
of making you immortal
or driving you mad
with grief.

(The image is Head of Aphrodite, from the Worcester Art Museum. Photo by Theodora Goss.)

The Forest
by Theodora Goss

You took a photograph
of the forest.

At first I was not in it,
just the trees
made amethyst by twilight.

And then I was,
as though you had imagined me
into the rising mist,
or conjured me out of it.

I was a moth, with luminous
wings, fluttering
aimlessly over the mossy carpet
of the forest floor,
among the ferns that raised their curled fronds
like green fists.

And then a fox, glimmering
under the trees, the white tip of my tail
moving like a ghost.
What was I stalking so purposefully? Perhaps
a frightened mouse that disappeared
into its burrow.

And then I was a tree myself,
an aspen, quivering,
as nervous as a young girl
at her first evening party,
dressed in white bark, with the gold leaves
of my hair forming a diadem
for decoration.

Finally, I became
the pale disk of the moon
rising through the trees,
winking at you
with the gray crater of my eye —
my mischievous love,
who takes me
through so many transformations.

(The image is Beech Forest by Gustav Klimt.)

A Room of Her Own
by Theodora Goss

Every woman must have a room
where she can be completely herself.

Where there are flowers on the table,
roses and lilies in a vase
inherited from her grandmother.
Where there are patches of sunlight and shadow
on the old wooden floor,
and birdsong comes in through the window,
morning and evening. Where the furniture
embraces her at the end of each day, after
she had been everything to everyone,
except to herself.
Where she is at home.

Every woman must have a place
where she can retreat and rest,
like a bird to its nest, or a bear
to its cave in the dark forest.
With lace curtains, and pillows
on the comfortable chair
so she can curl up and dream,
like a snail in its shell, snugly
tucked into herself.

With a shelf of the books
she read as a child,
their covers soft from the repeated touch
of small fingers,
and in the air, the lingering
scent of her mother’s perfume.

Every woman should have
such a room.

(The image is A Favorite Author by Poul Friis Nybo)

Madeleine in the Bois d’Amour
(Émile Bernard, 1892)
by Theodora Goss

The girl is picking a flower
from the pink tree.
Her hat is lying on the grass
because it is springtime —
the sun is shining, the forest behind her
is golden with promise.
And her friend in the foreground,
named no doubt something like Isabelle
or Yvette, is wearing a crown
of delicate white flowers. She is already
a queen of the spring, as Madeleine
will be. In her pink dress, with her hair
falling in a golden stream.
This is a dream of love and timelessness,
the two girls existing in an eternity
of afternoon. Someday, perhaps,
they will be married and have children,
responsibilities, dishes to wash.
But not now, or now, or now.
Here, now, it is always spring in Brittany.
The river in the background is flowing
between green hills,
and the white blossoms are floating
above the branches of the pink tree
like clouds.

(The image is Madeleine au Bois d’Amour by Émile Bernard.)