On the Recent War
by Theodora Goss
Every child that died
on either side
was a song that will never be sung,
a dance that will never be danced, a story
that will never be told or written,
a painting that will never be painted, a statue
that will never be carved in stone,
a tune that will never be played, a poem
that will never come into being.
A silence, an absence
where there could have been —
something, anything.
(The image is Child in a Straw Hat by Mary Cassatt.)
Pigeons and Peacocks
by Theodora Goss
I dreamed of a strange bird
that looked like a pigeon, white and brown,
but toward the back it had some feathers
that were blue and green, iridescent,
and its tail had the telltale eyes
of a peacock.
Was it a pigeon turning into a peacock?
A peacock who had somehow disguised itself
as a pigeon, but forgotten to hide its tail feathers?
Was it a secret agent, a peacock in MI5?
Or maybe a thief, some sort of international
criminal, a peacock wanted by Interpol? Or maybe
a peacock in a witness protection program?
Alternatively, was it a pigeon
who had decided it wasn’t going to be limited
by its identity as an ordinary pigeon
strutting around the streets of Budapest?
A pigeon with a vision board, who set intentions
and was determined to live its best life?
A pigeon with a story to tell.
Or was the dream somehow a commentary
on human existence, that we are all
pigeons and peacocks, not always in equal measure,
sometimes looking ordinary and innocent
from the front, but trailing a kind of feathered glory
behind us?
(The image is a painting by by Pieter Casteels III.)
How To Survive
by Theodora Goss
In a dream you saw a way to survive and you were full of joy.
–Lorna Simpson
In a dream
you saw a way to survive
the drowning,
the death by arsenic, by lightning,
death by the sword, by pistol,
by ennui and all the various ways
you could have died,
falling from the parapet, inside
the belly of a whale. You found
a way to survive the scenarios
you had imagined,
the despair of consciousness,
of being.
You escaped the lion’s mouth,
the serpent’s tooth,
the hangman’s rope, the dagger
of the assassin,
all the fears unleashed when Pandora
opened her box.
And you found, somehow,
joy at the bottom of the basin.
It was unfolding slowly,
like a photograph developing
in darkness, to show
something miraculous,
something worth all the striving,
the waiting.
(The image is Jour de Morts by Carlos Schwabe.)
Like a Caterpillar
by Theodora Goss
I would like to transform
into a strange animal —
unclassifiable, a headache
for Linnaeus and his progeny.
I would like to be
green, furred, perhaps segmented,
like a long caterpillar
with rows of tiny legs
and orange tufts for ears
that could hear
everything happening underground,
all the secret things,
the subterranean whispering
of trees, the gossip of moles
in their holes. I would have
two pairs of eyes,
four altogether, that could see
what bats see, and a small nose,
almost invisible, that could smell
winter coming.
After that, I would like to transform
into some flying thing, perhaps
with green furred wings
spotted orange, and a long tongue
so I could taste the clouds
in the dew left on purple clover.
And after that,
something skittering, like a squirrel
with orange fur and a tail
like an antenna, so I could pick up
what the stars were saying
to one another. And after that,
a sort of jellyfish, translucent,
performing its tidal ballet,
and after that . . .
(The image is a botanical illustration.)
This Poem Is About Cake
by Theodora Goss
If I didn’t care
what the world thought,
I would eat all the cake.
What cake?
I don’t know, any cake.
Every cake. All the cake ever.
But no, I mean what kind of cake
specifically?
Chocolate cake, made
of equal parts flour and cocoa, frosted
with chocolate ganache, as rich
as a miser. Or angel cake, held together
by whipped egg whites and prayer, topped
with glazed strawberries. Or maybe
lemon drizzle, just sour enough
for a summer afternoon in Virginia,
or one of those Viennese tortes
named after Hapsburg princes, basically
layers of coffee cream and walnuts, studded
with history like a museum. Or maybe even
wedding cake with piped icing roses,
like a moonlit garden. Or birthday cake,
or the cake we eat at funerals, a mixture
of sugar, ginger, sad memories,
and pineapple chunks.
Or the cake my mother made
every Christmas.
I would eat it slowly,
slice by delicate slice, until I had eaten all of it.
And then I would start on the next one.
Isn’t that just a bit, I don’t know,
frivolous? You’d spend your entire life
eating cake.
Then let me start over again.
If I didn’t care what you think . . .
(The image is Strawberries and Cakes by John F. Francis.)
Old Hungarian Women
by Theodora Goss
I see them sometimes, walking
along the street, pulling
wheeled shopping baskets behind them,
or standing in the doorways
of apartment houses, talking
to one another. They wear scarves
on their heads, or hats they have knitted
themselves. They wear sensible shoes.
I see them, the old women,
and I am convinced
they are witches, every one of them.
That they know (maybe they are
the only ones who know)
what’s going on — with the weather,
the war, the political situation.
They don’t interfere — they just watch,
knowing, having seen it all before,
having lived through a war already,
through assorted revolutions,
through socialism, capitalism, all the other
isms you can think of. They have striped cats
that lie blinking on their windowsills
behind lace curtains, and flower boxes
filled with red geraniums. They make jam
from plums and syrup from elderberries.
They have magic in the tips of their fingers,
which they embroider into pillows,
doilies. They make strudel
with dough folded out of thin, flaky air,
bread rolls like clouds, paprikás
for which angels sin and fall from heaven.
They can turn into crows, gray and black,
parading around the city parks,
holding conventions.
I myself am a little scared
of the old women. I am convinced
they can see into my soul. I am not at all
sure that I have been good or clever
or polite enough to avoid their curses —
or disapproving glances, which,
to be honest, might be even worse.
Maybe someday they will let me
join them — but I would have to become
a great deal wiser, practice
how to make jam, transform myself
into a crow, the magical art
of endurance.
(The image is Old Woman by Sándor Bihari.)
Portrait of a Lady
by Theodora Goss
She sits on a stone bench
in the city park, under a bush
of pink roses, probably
something like Maiden’s Blush,
because they have so many
petals — you know the kind
I mean, that blossom in June
and release, if you lean in closely,
the most delicious perfume.
She is reading a book — I can’t seem
to make out the title, but certainly
some classic work of literature.
She looks the type to be reading
Tolstoy or Jane Austen, or perhaps
Agatha Christie, who knows.
Well, the roses leaning over her shoulder
that drop pink petals on the pages,
they know, of course.
And she is waiting
for someone — I can tell because
she keeps checking her watch.
I would like to think
she is waiting for someone she loves.
That would match
her general air of ease and elegance,
her essential civility.
Which is why I have called this poem
Portrait of a Lady.
Such an old-fashioned term, suitable
for a romance, or, of course, a tragedy.
Which I hope this is not —
although who knows.
Except, of course, the roses.
They know everything.
Every little thing.
They always do, damn it.
(The images is In the Rose Garden by Robert Panitzsch.)
Theodora Goss: Poems 