Theodora Goss: Poems

Lilies of the Valley
by Theodora Goss

I was sitting on a bench
under tall trees
looking at the leaves
of lilies of the valley
(but they weren’t in a valley,
just growing out of last year’s
dried brown leaf litter),
feeling rather sorry
for myself, and tired
from the state of the world.
The lilies were not blooming
yet, just green leaves
waving in the wind, no white
bells as pure as purity —
no saint could be
more immaculate, more sweetly
scented, more holy.
But it was not yet
the time for white bells,
only green promises. And I thought,
as I sat on that bench,
that so many things will come,
whether or not we expect them:
clouds like distant islands,
the scent of hidden blossoms,
an end to our sorrows,
joy like a benediction.

(The image is an illustration for Flora’s Feast by Walter Crane.)

A Stand of Birches
by Theodora Goss

In the evening,
the white birch ladies
lift their skirts by the water
so elegantly, as though being presented
at court to the queen herself,
the pale moon,
showing her face in the sky
even before the sun, that arrogant king,
leaves the ballroom
to the bats and moths and owls,
the demimonde of the night,
ruled over by their own
pockmarked but still lovely monarch.
The birches curtsy and she nods
to them, in recognition
of their fealty.

(The image is Birch Trees by Alois Kalvoda.)

Pictures of Roses
by Theodora Goss

My camera is filled
with pictures of roses
displaying their blossoms
in elegant poses,
each sporting a mass
of extravagant petals
like World War II veterans
proud of their medals
or debutantes lounging
in acres of tulle,
or the freshly-scrubbed faces
of children in school.
I love them so much
from their tops to their toeses,
from leaf, root, and branch
to each bud that discloses
a deep golden heart
like a miniature sun
or the prizes bestowed
when a race has been won.

I long for a garden
of actual roses
that smell like perfume
from the courtyards and closes
of far Ispahan
or another exotic
location. Alas,
my quest is quixotic
for I dwell in a city
where all that I have
is a tiny apartment
and a large Hasselblad.
So for the foreseeable
future I’ll settle
for pictures of roses
in exquisite fettle.
But someday, watch out!
A garden I’ll grow,
enormous, extravagant,
with endlessly elegant
roses and roses
in circles and rowses,
hanging from pergolas,
climbing up trellises,
rampaging over
Greek statues on terraces
as though concealing
French fairytale palaces —
and I’ll walk in their perfume
wherever I go.

(The image is The Artist’s Wife in the Garden at Skagen by Peder Severin Kroyer.)

The Orchard
by Theodora Goss

I found a secret orchard at Kew,
hidden away from the crowds,
an orchard with only eight apple trees
and me, and one magpie.

It dated, the sign said, back to the time
of King George III, the one
who went mad—I assume you know the story
or could look it up.

But I could not be sad in that orchard—
the trees were great company,
and the magpie, of course, and whatever birds
were chattering in the trees.

It was the end of May, so the apples
were not yet ripe. They hung
like hard green balls the size of marbles
the branches among.

And I wished that I could stay until autumn
to see them ripen and taste
their antique flavors—the Orange Pippin,
the Tower of Glamis, the Winter Banana,
the Killerton Sweet.

Just me and the magpie and a single foxglove
that had somehow seeded itself
under the tree labeled Tower of Glamis
(like something symbolic out of Shakespeare)
and the clatter of birdsong and distant tourists
and a single airplane that passed overhead
and what I could hear if I listened closely,
sitting there in the dappled sunshine—
the silence beneath.

(The image is Under the Apple Tree by Bessie MacNicol.)

The Grammar of Love
by Theodora Goss

I love you I love you I love you
goes the poem,
except of course it sounds better in the language,
agglutinative, inflected,
of that other country, where I love you
is one word, consisting of
the word love, and then a grammatical ending
which means I am saying this to you,
it is a message just between us,
I to you, as though I were sending a letter
specifically to you, like one of those thin
blue sheets we used to send,
covered on both sides, almost indecipherable
from the attempt to include as much information
as possible in the airmail envelope.
Or a pigeon that has been trained to return
only to your hand, carrying a scrolled
up message attached to its ankle.
It is the same ending as in
I wait for you,
I search for you,
I call to you.
Which I do, by airmail, by pigeon post,
by this poem, carried on the wind,
hoping that you
will send a word, similarly inflected,
back.

(The image is A Spray of Goldenrod by Charles Courtney Curran.)

Announcement
by Theodora Goss

Despite the fact that it has officially
been abolished, the entire department
subject to budget cuts
designed to eliminate wasteful spending,
such as on wild cherry trees,
spring is coming again
any day now,
its branches heavy with white blossoms
that fall on the wet grass,
where no one sweeps them away —
as extravagant as ever.

(The image is Under the Cherry Tree by Sir John Lavery.)

How It Went (Diving)
by Theodora Goss

I went into surgery
for what they thought might be cancer
the same way I dove
into deep water
from the high dive, holding my breath,
thinking the only way up
to the air again was through
this new medium. Once I knew
it was not cancer after all, just a group
of irregular cells hanging out
in my throat, like teenagers
at the community pool,
I breathed, not with relief,
but simply to feel
that I was still somehow
capable of it, of expanding
my chest and taking in
the cold, sweet air of sheer
statistically unlikely and inexplicable
but utterly delightful
being.

(The image is The Pool No. 2 by Laura Knight.)