{"id":16552,"date":"2021-03-30T08:00:15","date_gmt":"2021-03-30T12:00:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/?p=16552"},"modified":"2021-04-06T22:41:41","modified_gmt":"2021-04-07T02:41:41","slug":"the-poetry-corner-30-march-2021","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/2021\/03\/30\/the-poetry-corner-30-march-2021\/","title":{"rendered":"The Poetry Corner – 30 March 2021"},"content":{"rendered":"

[To read an introduction to this column, please see the first paragraph of the initial post <\/em>here<\/em><\/a>]<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This week I would like to feature the contemporary poet Aria Aber, whose work I admire. This is her most recent poem published in the New Yorker. The poem also references another poem by a different poet I enjoy, and that poem is given below as well.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Dirt and Light<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Last night it startled me again \u2013 I dreamed<\/p>\n

of the corn maze through which we walked,<\/p>\n

almost a decade ago, in the presence<\/p>\n

of our other lovers. It was all burned down.<\/p>\n

Purple corn glowed in the fields enveloping<\/p>\n

the ruined maze, the woodlands washed<\/p>\n

by October sun. Instead of you, I found in the salt-white music<\/p>\n

of that familiar landscape an old piano, hollowed<\/p>\n

by the draft of time, and the handle of a porcelain cup<\/p>\n

in scorched soil. Relics of an imagined,<\/p>\n

civil life. Today, in the lemony light by your grave,<\/p>\n

I recited Merrill: Why did I flinch? I loved you<\/em>, then touched<\/p>\n

the damp and swelling mud, blue hyacinths<\/p>\n

your mother planted there \u2013<\/p>\n

ants were swarming the unfinished plot of earth<\/p>\n

like the black text of an infinite alphabet. I couldn\u2019t<\/p>\n

read it. There was no epiphany, just dirt, the vast curtain<\/p>\n

between this realm and the other. You never speak to me,<\/p>\n

I thought, not even in dreams.<\/p>\n

For hours, I sat there, mocked by the bees \u2013<\/p>\n

silly girl<\/em>, their golden faces laughed, she still wants<\/em><\/p>\n

and wants<\/em>. A warm gust shook the trees,<\/p>\n

and a pigeon settled into the dusk<\/p>\n

of a wet pine, and then another.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Mad Scene<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 (James Merrill)<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Again last night I dreamed the dream called Laundry.<\/p>\n

In it, the sheets and towels of a life we were going to share,<\/p>\n

The milk-stiff bibs, the shroud, each rag to be ever<\/p>\n

Trampled or soiled, bled on or groped for blindly,<\/p>\n

Came swooning out of an enormous willow hamper<\/p>\n

Onto moon-marbly boards. We had just met. I watched<\/p>\n

From outer darkness. I had dressed myself in clothes<\/p>\n

Of a new fiber that never stains or wrinkles, never<\/p>\n

Wears thin. The opera house sparkled with tiers<\/p>\n

And tiers of eyes, like mine enlarged by belladonna,<\/p>\n

Trained inward. There I saw the cloud-clot, gust by gust,<\/p>\n

Form, and the lightning bite, and the roan mane unloosen.<\/p>\n

Fingers were running in panic over the flute\u2019s nine gates.<\/p>\n

Why did I flinch? I loved you. And in the downpour laughed<\/p>\n

To have us wrung white, gnarled together, one<\/p>\n

Topmost mordent of wisteria,<\/p>\n

As the lean tree burst into grief.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[To read an introduction to this column, please see the first paragraph of the initial post here]   This week I would like to feature the contemporary poet Aria Aber, whose work I admire. This is her most recent poem published in the New Yorker. The poem also references another poem by a different poet […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2238,"featured_media":16553,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1334],"tags":[1726,1221,1725,265,281,1574,15,1680],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16552"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2238"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=16552"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16552\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16555,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16552\/revisions\/16555"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/16553"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16552"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16552"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16552"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}