AN ADVENTURE 1. It came to me one night as I was falling asleep that I had finished with those amorous adventures to which I had long been a slave. Finished with love? my heart murmured. To which I responded that many profound discoveries awaited us, hoping, at the same time, I would not be asked to name them. For I could not name them. But the belief that they existed— surely this counted for something?
2. The next night brought the same thought, this time concerning poetry, and in the nights that followed various other passions and sensations were, in the same way, set aside forever, and each night my heart protested its future, like a small child being deprived of a favorite toy. But these farewells, I said, are the way of things. And once more I alluded to the vast territory opening to us with each valediction. And with that phrase I became a glorious knight riding into the setting sun, and my heart became the steed underneath me.
3. I was, you will understand, entering the kingdom of death, though why this landscape was so conventional I could not say. Here, too, the days were very long while the years were very short. The sun sank over the far mountain. The stars shone, the moon waxed and waned. Soon faces from the past appeared to me: my mother and father, my infant sister; they had not, it seemed, finished what they had to say, though now I could hear them because my heart was still.
4. At this point, I attained the precipice but the trail did not, I saw, descend on the other side; rather, having flattened out, it continued at this altitude as far as the eye could see, though gradually the mountain that supported it completely dissolved so that I found myself riding steadily through the air— All around, the dead were cheering me on, the joy of finding them obliterated by the task of responding to them—
5. As we had all been flesh together, now we were mist. As we had been before objects with shadows, now we were substance without form, like evaporated chemicals. Neigh, neigh, said my heart, or perhaps nay, nay—it was hard to know.
6. Here the vision ended. I was in my bed, the morning sun contentedly rising, the feather comforter mounded in white drifts over my lower body. You had been with me— there was a dent in the second pillowcase. We had escaped from death— or was this the view from the precipice?
U.A. Fanthorpe?
THE FORTUNE-TELLER'S FUNERAL
The seeing has been my life. Handed down Like silver. No use here, in Farnborough, Where they know my proper name. But Easter-time Sees me off on my way to Margate. A good place to mystify. Westgate sometimes. Or Broadstairs. All gainful addresses.
Vardo, curtains, crystal ball— They draw the people. I’d do better in the sun, In my big chair, holding damp gorgio hands, Say just as true a future. But they need hocus-pocus, The lamp, reflections, shadows, me in pearlies, Queen Gypsy Rose Lee on the posters.
I find the future. They giggle and stare, Helpless at belief. I muzzle what I know: How many young women will marry twice, How many lads die young, in sand or air. I speak riddles: Many will love you. Beware of high places, of fire and steel. They can unravel it if they like.
My own death’s different. I’ve planned it. Picked my undertaker, Mister Owen, Who did so well by Levi. The procession, He’ll see to it: six jet horses (My Levi’s pals should find a proper match), Outrider, coachman, flowers and flowers and flowers, great wreath in the shape of my special chair, Romanies walking, three hundred or so, Twenty thousand, I say, twenty thousand Some in mourning, some not
Black triangles, the gypsy Z They are marched through. The see-saw rattle Of goods trains in the night. Whose death is this? I will not see it. What country’s this? A world turned upside down. I refuse the seeing.
The mourners go From Willow Walk to Crofton Road, by the park to Farborough Common. Traffic jams. The Deputy Mayor of Margate, he’ll be there to show respect. A proper Romany funeral. Like an old queen’s. The ash tree, I say, the birch tree. Such things need to be thought about before. And the Devouring. I refuse the seeing.
My death, I know it well: The April day in nineteen thirty-three; the weather, rainy, And cold; the missel-thrush singing all day By the vardo, till I die. I am Urania, Friend of the skies, the one who knows the future.
I will not hear the gypsies playing in the lager. I will not hear it when the music stops.
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Re: Contemporary female poets
Date: 2018-08-14 02:01 pm (UTC)AN ADVENTURE
1.
It came to me one night as I was falling asleep
that I had finished with those amorous adventures
to which I had long been a slave. Finished with love?
my heart murmured. To which I responded that many profound discoveries
awaited us, hoping, at the same time, I would not be asked
to name them. For I could not name them. But the belief that they existed—
surely this counted for something?
2.
The next night brought the same thought,
this time concerning poetry, and in the nights that followed
various other passions and sensations were, in the same way,
set aside forever, and each night my heart
protested its future, like a small child being deprived of a favorite toy.
But these farewells, I said, are the way of things.
And once more I alluded to the vast territory
opening to us with each valediction. And with that phrase I became
a glorious knight riding into the setting sun, and my heart
became the steed underneath me.
3.
I was, you will understand, entering the kingdom of death,
though why this landscape was so conventional
I could not say. Here, too, the days were very long
while the years were very short. The sun sank over the far mountain.
The stars shone, the moon waxed and waned. Soon
faces from the past appeared to me:
my mother and father, my infant sister; they had not, it seemed,
finished what they had to say, though now
I could hear them because my heart was still.
4.
At this point, I attained the precipice
but the trail did not, I saw, descend on the other side;
rather, having flattened out, it continued at this altitude
as far as the eye could see, though gradually
the mountain that supported it completely dissolved
so that I found myself riding steadily through the air—
All around, the dead were cheering me on, the joy of finding them obliterated
by the task of responding to them—
5.
As we had all been flesh together,
now we were mist.
As we had been before objects with shadows,
now we were substance without form, like evaporated chemicals.
Neigh, neigh, said my heart,
or perhaps nay, nay—it was hard to know.
6.
Here the vision ended. I was in my bed, the morning sun
contentedly rising, the feather comforter
mounded in white drifts over my lower body.
You had been with me—
there was a dent in the second pillowcase.
We had escaped from death—
or was this the view from the precipice?
U.A. Fanthorpe?
THE FORTUNE-TELLER'S FUNERAL
The seeing has been my life. Handed down
Like silver. No use here, in Farnborough,
Where they know my proper name. But Easter-time
Sees me off on my way to Margate.
A good place to mystify. Westgate sometimes.
Or Broadstairs. All gainful addresses.
Vardo, curtains, crystal ball—
They draw the people. I’d do better in the sun,
In my big chair, holding damp gorgio hands,
Say just as true a future. But they need hocus-pocus,
The lamp, reflections, shadows, me in pearlies,
Queen Gypsy Rose Lee on the posters.
I find the future. They giggle and stare,
Helpless at belief. I muzzle what I know:
How many young women will marry twice,
How many lads die young, in sand or air.
I speak riddles: Many will love you.
Beware of high places, of fire and steel.
They can unravel it if they like.
My own death’s different. I’ve planned it.
Picked my undertaker, Mister Owen,
Who did so well by Levi. The procession,
He’ll see to it: six jet horses
(My Levi’s pals should find a proper match),
Outrider, coachman, flowers and flowers and flowers,
great wreath in the shape of my special chair,
Romanies walking, three hundred or so,
Twenty thousand, I say, twenty thousand
Some in mourning, some not
Black triangles, the gypsy Z
They are marched through. The see-saw rattle
Of goods trains in the night.
Whose death is this? I will not see it.
What country’s this? A world turned upside down.
I refuse the seeing.
The mourners go
From Willow Walk to Crofton Road,
by the park to Farborough Common.
Traffic jams. The Deputy Mayor
of Margate, he’ll be there to show respect.
A proper Romany funeral. Like an old queen’s.
The ash tree, I say, the birch tree.
Such things need to be thought about before.
And the Devouring.
I refuse the seeing.
My death, I know it well:
The April day in nineteen thirty-three; the weather, rainy,
And cold; the missel-thrush singing all day
By the vardo, till I die. I am Urania,
Friend of the skies, the one who knows the future.
I will not hear the gypsies playing in the lager.
I will not hear it when the music stops.