Give it another month from now, though why wait on ceremony, the winter light this early late November evening the soft blue bruise of where the heart has thinned the blood--and cold, so cold, the kind of clarity a star will clarify before the sky is full of them, the blue gone for good. Someone asked me earlier today about how the past is people, which I took to mean a memory, a question that had more to do with why we remember who we remember, right down to the coloration in an eye, probably blue, since brown is too common and any darker the absent color of midnight and any lighter only daylight. Children cover their eyes in order to become invisible, as later they disappear into their eyes, the way sunlight leaves and enters and within the imagination takes on meaning, say blue in all its variety and depth, which, like beauty, is in the blue eye of the beholder. Though I wonder. Love is a kind of beauty, the moment its own memory in the eye of the lover looking back at you, her blue eyes the blue of right before sunset, blue filling the fire still in the air, blue lingering, blue fading, blue closing, then first thing in the morning opening blue again, blue all the longer hours, until the dream end of the day.
Stanley Plumly (1939-2019) published ten influential books of poetry during his lifetime and four books of prose on poetry, painting, and Romanticism. He co-edited William Matthews' collected poems (with Sebastian Matthews) and an anthology of contemporary American poetry (with Michael Collier). His final collection of new poems, Middle Distance, will appear from W. W. Norton in August 2020.
|Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback|
|Title Annotation:||FOUR POEMS|
|Publication:||The American Poetry Review|
|Date:||Nov 1, 2019|
|Previous Article:||HOW TO ABANDON SHIP.|
|Next Article:||from On the Overnight from Agadir.|