By Sandra M. Gilbert
Sandra Gilbert's poems are fantastically located on the intersection of craft and feeling.—Billy CollinsThe identify of this collection—at instances mournful, sardonic, and joyous—refers to the grief within the wake of loss. but those poems are not almost about the implications of loss but in addition in regards to the advanced stories of persistence, acquiescence, and rebirth that, with success, mark the aftermath of sorrow. from "Aftermath: Kite" But the concept is simply paper in spite of everything, a soul that adheres to a stick, tears open, shreds as if it truly is flung to the floor in a last glossy fall, and finally the road is going limp, the mountaineering ends. Beyond the frenzy & sweep, an arc of silence— though a brain imagined this flight, & proved it as soon as.
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Extra resources for Aftermath: Poems
FOR CHANA & JONATHAN 32 H1s soRRow masters his sleep: nightly he's unmanned& yet so manly that his grief cries out her name in a deep voice bearded with the weird testosterone of pain. How can my hands comfort him, my loneliness naked after the torn sleeves of my own shivah, the ripped seams I can never mend? He wants her to come back from that bad speechless glare, the searing crystal of the place where she turned into a pillar that wouldn't 33 ever turn toward him again, though she'd still love him if love could live in a heart of salt.
As is customary, more than two thirds of the party are now dead, including of course you, and who will wave and smile in the backseat of the car, 47 who will roll down the window and let in the cold air? -DECEMBER I, 2007 MoviNG OuT Darling, I'm pushing the house into the garden, into the black arms, the green embrace of the oaks. Yesterday, two giants lugged the grand piano, its synapses still crackling with your tunes, up the steep steps, the narrow path to the gate. Now it muses in the what is this of a warehouse, and the silence where it used to stand has forgotten your forte.
Now your body that was once my body too is nothing but a rag for spiders spinning their own histories. What news do you have for us? And what can we say to you that means? Our youngest isn't happy, & the light of spring casts a chill on the cut narcissi that I flung across the stone where your name still burns an eerie white as if you could rise between its bars, above the wilted flowers, the deepening marks that say 43 I lie among shadows with another man, she lies alone with hope & dread-& you, no longer you, you lie with the solemn spinning things that move the light of March into its own decay.