I love this sly, circling poem of Stanley’s. He loved that garden so much, for so many years, and it became the site of myth. Once when he was leading me through, he paused at a damp and shady corner, where some mossy rocks seemed to indicate an imagined, larger ravine, and said: “This is where Persephone was stolen into the underworld.”
–Mark Doty
Light splashed this morning
on the shell-pink anemones
swaying on their tall stems;
down blue-spiked veronica
light flowed in rivulets
over the humps of the honeybees;
this morning I saw light kiss
the silk of the roses
in their second flowering,
my late bloomers
flushed with their brandy.
A curious gladness shook me.
So I have shut the doors of my house,
so I have trudged downstairs to my cell,
so I am sitting in semi-dark
hunched over my desk
with nothing for a view
to tempt me
but a bloated compost heap,
steamy old stinkpile,
under my window;
and I pick my notebook up
and I start to read aloud
the still-wet words I scribbled
on the blotted page:
“Light splashed . . .”
I can scarcely wait till tomorrow
when a new life begins for me,
as it does each day,
as it does each day.
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Reprinted from Passing Through: The Later Poems, New and Selected by Stanley Kunitz. Copyright © 1995, 1997 by Stanley Kunitz. Used by permission of W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. All rights reserved.
