Theodora Goss: Poems

Approaching Budapest (Again)
by Theodora Goss

City of my heart, I am flying to you at a hundred
miles an hour, while below you lie dreaming,
wearing the Danube like a sash around your ball gown,
the one you fell asleep in last night, or was it during
the last century, when you went waltzing
with Vienna, one of those oom-pah-pah waltzes.
You are beautiful in your long sleep, like the princess
in the rose garden protected by thorns.
I will not wake you up, I don’t think anyone
could wake you up now, unless perhaps History
comes along once again, prancing on his black horse
or riding a tank, the way he has a hundred times
before, mowing down both thorns and roses.
But for today at least, may you dream on
among your spires and cupolas, a vision
of green water and sunlit stone, and the linden trees
that spread their perfume over the city parks,
with the bees buzzing (in Hungarian).

(The image is Lady Sleeping by Franciszek Zmurko.)

St. Mary Abbots, June 13, 2025
by Theodora Goss

In the nave of St. Mary Abbots,
students from the Royal College of Music
are playing a lunchtime concert —
Schumann, Haydn, and a French composer
named Milhaud, whom I’ve never heard of.
The air smells pleasantly of old pages,
like a used bookstore. Above the altar,
the crucified Jesus and his disciples
listen intently, also enjoying the music.
The saxophone is dripping notes like honey
from the comb, as slow and liquid and sweet.
The violin has turned into a nightingale;
the piano is a river — but wasn’t it always?
The cello is dancing in a magnificent garden,
and now the violins are twin princesses
dressed in white cotton throwing golden balls,
tossing and never failing to catch them.
The clarinet has taught you how to hear
in a new way that does not seem to involve
ears at all. Your fingertips are listening,
and the tip of your nose, and your eyelashes.
Somewhere, mountains are growing.
The stones of the city are vibrating
like violin strings, the clouds have become angels,
and all the people sitting in the pews,
from the old woman with her walker
to a child sleeping in his mother’s lap,
are wearing haloes. Yes, the air smells
like the pages of old books, and the notes
played by the string quartet rise
up to the gothic vault of the church like prayers.

Elsewhere there are wars and children starving
as usual, and even Haydn cannot prevent
the blare of an ambulance in the middle of the adagio.
But here the music goes on, as it did
on the deck of the Titanic — as it always does.

(The image is a painting of St. Mary Abbots by Elizabeth Gladstone.)

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.)