Theodora Goss: Poems

Little Apples
by Theodora Goss

I gathered the little apples even though the wasps
told me the apples were theirs. They would alight
on an apple, a ripe one of course, and suck
out its sweetness. Under the tree, the overripe ones
lay on the grass, striped red and orange,
with an intriguing variety of bruises, smelling
too sweet, eau de pomme trop mûres, the perfume
of autumn. I chose from among the ones
still on the tree, still partly green, but already
turning red, freckled and striated, twisting
their stems until they detached, deciding
if they were not sweet enough, I would turn them,
chopped and simmered to the color of honey,
into compote with a bit of cane sugar,
then ladle them into glass bottles, keeping
the apples that way, not letting this perfect autumn
escape from me, not letting our time together
escape from me, like a wasp forever in amber.

(The image is Basket of Apples by Claude Monet.)

Sorrow Song
by Theodora Goss

Sorrow, Sorrow, come to me,
comb my hair,
lay out the dress I planned
to wear.
Let it be my wedding dress
or my shroud.
Luckily, white linen
does not fade.
Walk with me, hand in hand,
by the sea shore,
collecting multicolored shells,
watching the billows and the swells
as the waves cast their spells –
listening to the song they sing,
beckoning, beckoning,
like the song you sang
so long ago
as you rocked my cradle,
dear Sorrow.

(The image is On the Seashore by George Elgar Hicks.)

The Pond Beneath the Willows
by Theodora Goss

I found a secret pond beneath the willows
where the ground was carpeted with creeping charlie.
Reeds grew around it, and in the lake beyond
were the leaves, floating on the water, of waterlily.
The rain dripped from the willows, slowly, slowly,
starting ripples like in that painting by Caillebotte,
and I thought that everything in nature is perfect, really,
whether or not you can capture it in art.
For a moment I felt as close to true contentment
as I think is possible on this troubled Earth,
and I did not care about things like death or dinner
while raindrops fell in plonking quarter notes
and the crickets began their chirping, and the hidden birds
called to each other, saying the storm was done,
and I stood for a while in that resplendent stillness,
and I did not want to go home.

(The image is The Yerres, Effect of Rain by Gustave Caillebotte)

Theoretical Physics
by Theodora Goss

Maybe gravity
is how the Earth loves us,
holding on to us,
bringing us back to her
no matter how high we jump
or fly, like a careful mother
with her arms stretched out,
always catching us,
as she continually catches
avalanches and waterfalls,
and every seed that journeys
on the billows of the air,
and rain returning from the clouds,
and every leaf that floats
from among the branches to lie
upon the grass, and every blossom,
and even the birds,
with their illusion of perpetual rising,
even eventually her own daughter,
the rebellious moon,
who left home so long ago,
always bringing us
back into her arms,
back into her embrace.

(The image is A Dark Pool by Laura Knight.)

String Quartet
by Theodora Goss

The violin speaks to the violin
and the viol interrupts. The cello
adds its opinions, intermittently.
They are like a dysfunctional family,
arguing with one another,
saying different things, and yet
out of disharmony comes harmony,
like a father and mother going to a party
with their two daughters, one insisting
she is a princess, the other prancing
like a pony while her mother is trying
to put on her coat, the father saying
once again in his sonorous voice
they should have left fifteen minutes
ago, really don’t you know
it’s time, it’s past time.

(The image is Family Portrait (The Bellelli Family) by Edgar Degas.)

The Nest
by Theodora Goss

I found a nest
about the size of my hand
fallen to the ground in the park
around the Magyar Nemzeti Múzeum,
which contains artifacts from throughout
Hungarian history — starting
with the Neolithic, through Ottomans
and Hapsburgs to the twentieth
century, from flint tools to Soviet stars,
telling a story of migrations,
continual rebellions, numerous wars,
showcasing human ingenuity.

It had fallen, no doubt,
from one of the poplar trees.
It was empty — the nestlings
had already flown
earlier in the summer. But what artistry
their mother and father
had put into this small vessel,
this receptacle of their most precious
speckled eggs! How intricately
they had woven dried grasses,
small twigs, bits of string,
their own feathers, and covered it
with the fluff that falls
from poplar trees, like summer snow.
It was, as nests go,
a masterpiece.

I brought it home
because there was no place in the museum
for a bird’s nest, however Hungarian
the birds (which might, after all
have been migrants), however intricate
the artifact.

(The image is Bird’s Nest with Sprays of Apple Blossoms by William Henry Hunt.)

In the Mátra
(for Norbert)
by Theodora Goss

The rock ladies
thought it was rude
when I asked about their age.
“How old are these rocks?” I asked.
And of course they heard me,
the craggy, lichen-covered rock ladies
with moss growing over their bodies,
lying among the grasses where butterflies
were fluttering their evanescent way,
sipping from purple and yellow flowers,
gone in a season. But the rock ladies
sleep long and deep, remember glaciers.
Their faces are pitted and pock-marked.
They know ancient stories
from when these mountains reached
to the sky and they could drink
directly from the clouds.
“Who does she think she is?” they said
to each other. “Landing here on us
like one of those butterflies,
and just as obnoxious.
Never mind. She’ll be gone soon.”

(The image is The Rocks by Vincent Van Gogh.)