Theodora Goss: Poems

Flower and Butterfly
by Theodora Goss

It was lovely while it lasted, said the flower.
For an hour, I had your company.
But the butterfly did not answer.
She flitted away silently.
There were more flowers in the field, all equally
beautiful, and filled with nectar.
She remembered only dimly
what it had been like to be earthbound,
to crawl instead of fly. She was in love
only with the sky and her own motion,
creating elegant eddies on the air,
sometimes here, sometimes there,
inconstant.

The flower, sighing, dug her roots in deeper,
committing herself to what she had:
moist soil, sunlight falling on her petals,
the wind in her leaves, her awareness of winter coming,
when there would be no butterflies
for even the briefest of conversations,
the seeds she was already preparing
to scatter before frost covered the field,
her presentiment of spring.

(The image is Butterfly and Lily by Ohara Koson.)

In the Night
by Theodora Goss

I wake in the middle of the night, afraid of the dark,
afraid of the hours ahead, of everything
but death, which somehow does not frighten me
compared to the depth of the ocean, the height of the moon,
the mystery of the shapes birds make in flight,
the endlessness of certain minutes, which seem
to last forever, the emptiness of words,
the evanescence of a favorite perfume —

how things can be here one moment, then suddenly gone,
how you can work a lifetime without reward,
how another can truly see you, then turn away,
how easily a hand can slip from yours.

I lie in darkness, with the sound of the ticking clock
segmenting time, and tell myself it must mean
something, although I have no idea what.
Meanwhile, the moon drifts in the sky above
through her veil of clouds, while a flock of wild geese cry
as they pass overhead, and waves continue to crash
on the wet gray rocks like an ancient lullaby,
and slowly, as dawn approaches, the stars wink out.

(The image is Woman with Pillar of Flowers by Odilon Redon.)

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.)