By Sandra M. Gilbert
Sandra Gilbert's poems are fantastically positioned on the intersection of craft and feeling.—Billy CollinsThe name of this collection—at instances mournful, sardonic, and joyous—refers to the grief within the wake of loss. but those poems are usually not near to the results of loss but in addition concerning the complicated studies of persistence, acquiescence, and rebirth that, with good fortune, mark the aftermath of sorrow. from "Aftermath: Kite" But the idea is just paper finally, 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 mountain climbing ends. Beyond the frenzy & sweep, an arc of silence— though a brain imagined this flight, & proved it as soon as.
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Additional resources for Aftermath: Poems
Everybody wore hats. We ate Cornish game hens stuffed with wild rice. A string quartet played the waltzes from Rosen/cavalier. Cousins & fathers& brothers uttered toasts. When we cut the cake, Monsieur Charles, the maitre-d', surprised you with a cupcake on which a single candle rode. ) There was white satin, as usual, & the usual rice. We had three children, four grandchildren -a little girl you never met is at this moment crying in the next room, & the sun is climbing over the cypresses. 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?
So AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS, the chiaroscuro of your absence still splits the bloody hearts of the blossoms, so now, for the first time, I light a Yahrzeit candle for you, & stand it near the stove, where it flickers against steel, trying to call you back from stone, trying to tell you how you' d have loved the little ones playing games on your grave last week their mops of difference, red & blond & brown, bent in concentration, their small fists grabbing & ratcheting the gears 51 that brighten the moving puzzle they brought.
FOR E. L. , FEBRUARY II, 2005 45 ANTI-SONNET Fifteen years in the sweet-scented meadow, its grasses restlessly balancing tendrils and tips of light, and the ocean juggling the sky in bits and pieces, and the cattails crinkling in the yellow heat . . No, no more about the meadow, say goodbye to the seasons, to pastorals, to dopey moping sheep, to brooding sky and sea, those teary tropes for sorrowful and sloppy! Emily Bronte, Judith Wright, you both already counted up the wild fifteen when one's above, an other cold in the earth: ghostly, you tell me to whistle a different tunegive voice to the rock, find words for the bed of granite, and don't describe tough stuff in another sonnet!
Aftermath: Poems by Sandra M. Gilbert