Theodora Goss: Poems

The Gray Catbird
by Theodora Goss

The gray catbird, says Birds of Massachusetts,
is secretive: yesterday I saw it hiding
behind the leaves. I could never get a photo.
I stood and watched it in the sunlit forest,
wondering what it was, this slate-gray bird
with a black cap, as though it belonged to some order
of nuns, with small black eyes, a long, thin bill,
looking at me through the leaves as if to say
some things don’t belong to you, some things belong
only to themselves. Later I read the Chippewa
call it Bird that Cries with Grief. I wish it had cried;
I would have liked to hear it, not grieving of course,
but just to hear the sound, like a cat, which is why
we call it catbird. Instead I stood on a carpet
of marsh marigolds, looking for twenty minutes
under the trees with my camera, trying to capture
it on film, while it insisted on remaining silent
and secretive in the heart of the sunlit forest,
always hidden among the leafy branches,
always a little beyond my understanding.
As it remains, despite my identification
of its habitat, its migratory habits,
its Latin name.

(The image is Catbird on Virginia Creeper by Isaac Sprague.)

The Mermaid’s Lament
by Theodora Goss

They are there, they are still there:
eyes eaten long ago, replaced by coral
and therefore more beautiful, transformed.
Jaws grinning as though at a fine jest.
Their ribs, like the ribs of the ship itself, become
homes for small fish, eels, and squid, more welcoming
than in life. Only their bones
remain, furred green with sea moss,
and the rings on their fingers, looser perhaps
than they once were,
and the green floating hair.

They are there, still there, alas,
lying on beds of algae
under the dark wave:
all the loves I could not save.

(The illustration is by Arthur Rackham.)

My Ghosts
by Theodora Goss

Some days, I think I’ll die of loneliness
here in this room. And then the ghosts appear,
Depression hiding in her long black hair,
Anxiety, a puppet on a string
pulled by a force he cannot understand,
Insomnia, so pale and tired-eyed.
I say, “Come in, my ghosts. I was alone
but now have company.” And down we sit,
Anxiety perched on the ottoman,
chewing his fingernails, Depression flung
over the sofa cushions, her black hair
piling upon the carpet, and her twin
Insomnia curled into my best chair.
Can I be lonely when they come, my ghosts?

(The image is by Wladyslaw Theodor Benda.)

The Language of Flowers
by Theodora Goss

I tell the truth in flowers.
I open my mouth: out falls
a rose, a violet,
forget-me-nots, a lily,
a daffodil, until
my hands are full. How lovely,
and yet — what have I said?
What is this floral language,
and can it be sufficient
to communicate my meaning?
What if I want to curse?
What if my truth is dark
as garden loam, as scattered
as beetles? What will drop
from my mouth then? A rose
half-chewed, the petals tattered,
already disintegrating
as it drops into my hand?
As broken and as fragile
as words?

(The painting is Beatrice by Marie Spartali Stillman.)

The Changeling
by Theodora Goss

What do you do? He wore his leather jacket to school,
pulled the fire alarm, felt up one of the nuns.
Detention was a time to draw rocket ships
or race cars. He liked things that go fast (skateboards),
things that were secret (cellars), things that squealed
(mice mostly, but also hamsters). He never harmed them
but put them in desks, purses, girls’ hair.
He read books on poisonous mushrooms and making bombs.

What do you do? Tell him, you are a doll,
created from sticks and feathers? Go back where
you came from? He would grin, get your daughter pregnant,
set your barn on fire.

(The painting is Puck by Sir Joshua Reynolds. This poem was published in my collection Songs for Ophelia.)

Beauty to the Beast
by Theodora Goss

When I dare walk in fields, barefoot and tender,
trace thorns with my finger, swallow amber,
crawl into the badger’s chamber, comb
lightning’s loose hair in a crashing storm,
walk in a wolf’s eye, lie
naked on granite, ignore the curse
on the castle door, drive a tooth into the boar’s hide,
ride adders, tangle the horned horse,
when I dare watch the east
with unprotected eyes, then I dare love you, Beast.

(The image is an illustration for “Beauty and the Beast” by Walter Crane.)

Philomela
by Theodora Goss

Where did Philomela, raped and mute,
find the threads to weave a tapestry,
imprisoned as she was in a tower,
in the forest of Thrace,
you ask me.

And I answer, the trees
bent their branches to give her
green leaves, from which she pulled
filaments. The birds flying above let fall
red and brown and orange feathers,
which she spun into strong fibers.
Blue came from the sky reflected in a pool,
wound on a spool by her clever fingers.
Clouds descended so she could have white
like tufts of wool. For black,
thin strands of darkness without stars
were donated by night, and the day
would have given all her yellow away
if Philomela had asked.
The moon contributed a skein
of her own silver hair, and purple twilight
wove itself into the tapestry
to set Philomela free
from her prison, her silence.
You could say they collaborated
to tell her story.

When the tapestry had been woven,
thread by thread, night said:
she has been silenced, this young
woman, Procne’s sister. But together
we have given her a tongue.

(The painting is The Spinner by William-Adolphe Bouguereau.)