Gift poem – Alice Notley

Nothing will hurt you that much despite how you feel

the stress on your back shapes your insight

this splendid November rain Toussaint. I find

you by your marks, he says

an imprint

But when I summon you, I talk to—I say—

my memory of your face. It’s kind of crazy

to others. They’re not very interesting he says.

When I first came to this country, and now

I know the language I say, but I had in a dream

spoken it many years previously. That is,

not the language of the dead the language

of France. I took one year of French in 1964

and then nothing but once, in 1977 I spoke French

in a dream all night: I was in the future I

moved here in 1992. Country of the more

logical than I? though the people of my quartier

know and like me, even as I a foreigner remain strange

You do everything alone a woman said to me.

There are ways to care without interfering

but the French speak of anguish frequently

they are conscious of emotional extremity

a terrible gift. It’s all a gift, he says . . .

some haven’t been opened. I’m not sure

he said that it’s nearly my sixty-seventh birthday

today though it’s the day of the dead hello

we love you they say.

Copyright ©: 
Alice Notley

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Poems in English 

• Is There A Power That Can Sustain And Cheer by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Invocation To The Earth, February 1816 by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Inside of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Inscriptions Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Inscriptions In The Ground Of Coleorton, The Seat Of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., Leicestershire by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Inscriptions For A Seat In The Groves Of Coleorton by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Influence of Natural Objects by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Indignation Of A High-Minded Spaniard by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Incident Characteristic Of A Favorite Dog by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• In The Pass Of Killicranky by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• In Due Observance Of An Ancient Rite by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• I Travelled among Unknown Men by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• I Know an Aged Man Constrained to Dwell by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• I Grieved For Buonaparte by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• How Sweet It Is, When Mother Fancy Rocks by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Hoffer by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Hint From The Mountains For Certain Political Pretenders by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Here Pause: The Poet Claims At Least This Praise by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Her Eyes Are Wild by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• Hart-Leap Well by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth

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Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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