You Loved Me
~ Marina Tsvetaeva
You loved me. And your lies had their own probity.
There was a truth in every falsehood.
Your love went far beyond any possible
boundary as no one else’s could.
Your love seemed to last even longer
than time itself. Now you wave your hand—
and suddenly your love for me is over!
That is the truth in five words.
Three of Swords from the Rider-Waite-Smith Tarot, art by Pamela Colman Smith
Count
~ Paul Celan
Count the almonds,
count what was bitter and kept you awake,
count me in:
I looked for your eye when you opened it, no one was looking at
you,
I spun that secret thread
on which the dew you were thinking
slid down to the jugs
guarded by words that to no one’s heart found their way.
Only there did you wholly enter the name that is yours,
sure-footed stepped into yourself,
freely the hammers swung in the bell frame of your silence,
the listened for reached you,
what is dead put its arm round you also
and the three of you walked through the evening.
Make me bitter.
Count me among the almonds.
Another Day
~ Martin Miller
How mad I must have been
When I look back now
On all the reasons why
It never happened somehow
The excuses I made with
A self-constructed lie
The boldness that I lacked
That made others gently cry
You have vision
You have time
Why? You have the flair
There’s no success like failure
They flippantly cry.
But never do themselves try
Everyone’s a winner.
I’ve been heard to say
But boldness never came my way
It’s so damn easy just to say
Another day
Another day.
My notes: What strikes me hard about this poem is that Martin Miller was no slouch at trying new things. He had a successful career as an antiques dealer, then went on to establish a gin distillery, a small group of hotels (the place in London was fabulous, and sadly is no more), and an arts and culture academy in London. He was also an investor in several side businesses, as well as self-publishing a novel (an entertaining, if uneven read) and the book of poetry in which this poem appears. He had some major financial swings (divorce is expensive, among other factors) but he recovered each time. And yet, he somehow felt “boldness never came my way”.
Drawing Room, Miller’s Residence, London, UK
The Heart of a Woman
~ Georgia Douglas Johnson
Armored Heart/Caged Heart by Renee Stout
Wine
~ Raymond Carver
Reading a life of Alexander the Great, Alexander
whose rough father, Philip, hired Aristotle to tutor
the young scion and warrior, to put some polish
on his smooth shoulders. Alexander who, later
on the campaign trail into Persia, carried a copy of
The Iliad in a velvet-lined box, he loved that book so
much. He loved to fight and drink, too.
I came to that place in the life where Alexander, after
a long night of carousing, a wine-drunk (the worst kind of drunk–
hangovers you don’t forget), threw the first brand
to start a fire that burned Persepolis, capital of the Persian Empire
(ancient even in Alexander’s day).
Razed it right to ground. Later, of course,
next morning–maybe even while the fire roared–he was
remorseful. But nothing like the remorse felt
the next evening when, during a disagreement that turned ugly
and, on Alexander’s part, overbearing, his face flushed
from too many bowls of uncut wine, Alexander rose drunkenly to his feet,
grabbed a spear and drove it through the breast
of his friend Cletus, who’d saved his life at Granicus.
For three days Alexander mourned. Wept. Refused food. “Refused
to see to his bodily needs.” He even promised
to give up wine forever.
(I’ve heard such promises and the lamentations that go with them.)
Needless to say, life for the army came to a full stop
as Alexander gave himself over to his grief.
But at the end of those three days, the fearsome heat
beginning to take its toll on the body of his dead friend,
Alexander was persuaded to take action. Pulling himself together
and leaving his tent, he took out his copy of Homer, untied it,
began to turn the pages. Finally he gave orders that the funeral
rites described for Patroklos be followed to the letter:
he wanted Cletus to have the biggest possible send-off.
And when the pyre was burning and the bowls of wine were
passed his way during the ceremony? Of course, what do you
think? Alexander drank his fill and passed
out. He had to be carried to his tent. He had to be lifted, to be put
into his bed.
An Attic Red-Figured Bell Krater, attributed to the Erbach Painter, circa 400-380 B.C.E. Image: Sotheby’s.
