Nothing grows here in the courtyard, not anymore.
Once there were roses in every bed,
impossibly always in full, unguarded flower.
Once there was always perfume, always opening.
It is not hard to remember the peonies, the parsley,
the surprising upstarts of basil, the hanging baskets
with long sweeping tendrils of bloom.
Once there were minstrels who never stopped singing.
The air always wore a silken song.
And now it is gone.
I do not know why I have come here again,
I who once planted these gardens, I who once
played the lute. I thought I had left them for good.
I’m surprised there are not even weeds here. Nothing
in the cracks of the sandstone steps.
Nothing in the empty beds.
It was not exactly a wrong turn
that brought me here, more of a wandering.
It was not really curiosity, more coincidence.
But isn’t it strange? Not even bindweed? Not lamb’s quarters?
Not even a blade of cheat grass?
The fountain in the center has not crumbled,
though no water flows in it. All the bricks
in the archways are still intact.
There is a gate. It always used to be locked,
but now it swings open at the slightest push.
It is innocent. I was the one who had locked it.
I knew what it was for.
If I’d known I were coming, would I have brought
some kind of offering? A poem, perhaps, or
tea leaves? Some flowers to scatter? Some seeds?
My hands flutter empty. They are unembarrassed
by their lack. There are no sacrifices to be made.
Once there were birds making play out of sky.
There is no sadness in remembering this.
I walk the paths. The way is still worn.
My feet know where to go. There is nothing
to bring back, nothing hidden in the walls.
Perhaps this is what I came for.
This one is curious for me. I sense you are referring to a specific myth, based on the title and the lute, but I’m not sure which one. It’s my ignorance, of course, but the lack of it leaves me reaching. I do like the story, however, how personally it’s told, the narrative voice especially, which folds back into my wondering who besides the speaker could be speaking. I love the gate detail. And the acceptance of the way things have changed.
Ah, thanks for this. I don¹t think this poem is doing what I want it to do. The title is a line from Adrienne Rich¹s Diving Into the Wreck. This garden is one of my personal wrecks, and it is entirely metaphorical. I need to work on it some more. My surprise with it was that there was so little sadness that the garden was long. The memory of the lushness, but not with anything left to grow there, not even weeds okay. Needs some work. It feels like an important one to me to work on, even If it never goes anywhere else. Thanks. Very helpful feedback.
From: “comment-reply@wordpress.com” Reply-To: Date: Saturday, July 18, 2015 at 7:34 PM To: Rosemerry Trommer Subject: [A Hundred Falling Veils] Comment: “Having Read the Book of Myths”
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The images are lovely, A small grammar thing–I believe it should be “if I’d known I was coming”……. I wonder if it would help the message if you inserted “Yet” before your words “they are unembarrassed..” as a clue that none of this had meaning to you any more.