Theodora Goss: Poems

A Conversation
by Theodora Goss

I think of you
whenever I walk by puddles, I told him.
That was because
he is always drawn to reflective surfaces:
pools, ponds, lakes, mirrors, windows.
I think he is constantly looking for, and looking into,
another world, deeper and stranger than this one.

Great, he said. I’m the guy who reminds you of puddles.
That’s a compliment, I guess. Could be worse.

No, I wanted to tell him, you’ve got it backwards:
it’s the puddles that remind me of you.
If there’s a compliment here, it’s to the puddles.
Imagine how they would feel, being compared
to such an unfathomable sea.

(The image is The Puddle by M.C. Escher.)

Christmas Night
by Theodora Goss

In the cold, dark night, a woman is giving birth.
She is young and beautiful, not much more than a child
herself, and all the stars are looking down
to watch this event, the most important on Earth.

Hear her crying out in joy and pain
at the miracle that happens once but is repeated
throughout history, the birth of a savior, who is both
flesh and myth, Christ the Lord and Jesus the man.

But at the moment he is a wet, slippery thing
squalling in her arms. This is how it begins
for us, this is the narrative that redeems us
over and over: the child born in a stable

on straw, to poverty and a perilous life,
at the fulcrum of the year, when winter seems
endless, when hope is lost and we resign
ourselves reluctantly to death and darkness.

He is the infant searching for his mother’s breast
as she smiles through tears, and the eternal return
of light and warmth, a promise that spring will come,
love will endure and sins will be forgiven.

Meanwhile the stars, who are old and wise, look down
with wonder and mirth. They have no need of salvation,
unlike the kneeling shepherds, the three kings
winding their unlikely way to Bethlehem.

(The image is Madonna and Child by Marianne Preindelsberger Stokes.)

The Haunting
by Theodora Goss

Since you have gone away, I seem to see
your face in all the places that I knew
before we met. A wind blows through the birches,
stirring their leaves, the color of your eyes.
Their branches catch my hair, just as you did.
I cannot seem to get away. The stream,
running over the stones, sounds like your voice.
I feel your touch when brushing past the ferns.
And in the house itself, the empty rooms,
the piles of dusty books, the billowing curtains,
are haunted by your absence. Unkind ghost,
come back to all the places where we walked
together, to this house, the garden sleeping
beneath the sunlight. Come and haunt me properly.

(The image is Spring by Heinrich Vogeler.)

Your Letters
by Theodora Goss

You said you write me letters in your head.
Of course I never read them: they’re addressed
to her, the other me who also lives
inside your head, more perfect than I could be,
prettier, more sophisticated, probably taller.
She gets them, opens them at her kitchen table,
smiles, and then writes you back — almost immediately.

I’m sure she likes receiving them as much
as I like getting the ones you actually send me,
on paper that does not disappear when you turn
your attention to another matter —
the ones I save in a box labeled Sewing Supplies,
so I can pretend they’re less precious than they are.
I’m sure she likes seeing herself reflected
in your eyes — I wonder what you look like in hers.

To be honest, I envy her — she gets to live
in a country I’ll only ever be able to access
fitfully, intermittently. She gets to ride trains
to cities I’ve never even heard the names of,
that you visited once in childhood or perhaps
read about in a book from the library.
She gets to walk through forests you remember
beside streams you explored as a pirate or Robin Hood,
and sit in your teenage bedroom beneath posters
of bands that disbanded long ago, whose songs
you still have on cassette tapes. She’s met your mother,
thrown a ball to the smartest dog in the world,
tasted apple strudel the way your grandmother made it.
She gets to hear the music on your headphones
and wander around in your dreams.

Meanwhile I’m stuck with only what you tell me —
reports from a distant country, mostly at peace,
sometimes at war with itself. Some are long missives,
some are curt dispatches from the front lines,
or perhaps telegrams without punctuation.

Forgive me: you know I respect your privacy.
But someday, if possible, I would like to be privy
to this conversation.

(The image is Girl Reading Letter by Alfred Edward Chalon.)

What the Ogre Said
by Theodora Goss

Call to the willow,
the willow replies:
the little frogs’ eyes
watch you, my darling,
beneath the gray skies,
watch from the hollow,
liquid and yellow,
like jonquils, all guarding
my own pretty prize.

Call to the clouds
and the clouds call again,
to you, pretty girl,
through wind, through rain:
these elegant gauds,
the moon for crown,
and a starry gown,
are yours, my pearl,
my lily, my own.

Call to the river,
the river responds,
gurgling, the giver
of rivulets, ponds,
floods and slim trickles,
irregular bubbles
blown by small fishes:
I’ll tend to your wishes,
as burbling it bounds.

Call to me, darling,
I’ll make you an answer
you cannot despise,
the wildest romancer
with loveliest lies
inspired by your eyes,
surprisingly charming,
my pretty, my starling,
my sorrowful prize.

(The image is Inge by the Dark Lake by John Bauer.)

Advice to a Daughter
by Theodora Goss

The moon’s the mistress for you: bind up your long brown hair,
and enter into her workshop, and learn her dark technique.
Learn to alter and falter and fatten, week to week;
learn to glide without turning, and silently stare and stare.

Learn her blank luminescence, and learn to daily draw
the seas of all the world without need of net or sieve,
to trail upon their waters one negligent white sleeve
and confound the bearded sages with inimitable law.

(The image is La Robe de Boudoir by Frank H. Desch.)

Guinevere in Prison
by Theodora Goss

She clasped her hands, and she unclasped her hands.
She stood up, and she sat back down again.
She sighed and pushed back copper-colored strands
of hair, and sighed and listened to the rain.
The windows were barred; she stood and looked outside
between the bars, and saw the wet gray walls,
and watched a lone bedraggled pigeon stride
the battlements, and trickling waterfalls
form from the turrets. The banners hung soaked and limp.
She set her white hands on the windowsill
and left them until they were cold and damp.
She closed her eyes. And then that pigeon stole,
boldly, while she snatched a somewhat rest,
two strands to make a copper-colored nest.

(The image is The Prisoner by Evelyn de Morgan.)