By the Same Author

James Longenbach (2012)

Today, no matter if it rains,
It's time to follow the path into the forest.


The same people will be walking the same dogs,
Or if not the same dogs, dogs that behave in similar fashions,
Some barking, some standing aloof.
The owners carry plastic bags.


But this is the forest, they complain, we must do as we like.
We must let the dogs run free,
We must follow their example,
The way we did when we were young.


Back then we slept, watched TV—
We were the dogs.
By the time the screen door slammed, we were gone.


Nobody really talks like that in the forest.
They're proud of their dogs,
Proud especially of the ones who never bark.
They're upset about the Norway maple, it's everywhere,
Crowding out the hickories and oaks.


Did you know it takes a million seeds to make one tree?
Your chances of surviving in the forest,
Of replicating yourself, are slim.


Today, the smaller dogs are wearing raincoats,
The bigger ones are stiffing it out.
They're tense, preoccupied,
Running in circles,
Getting tangled in the leash—


It's hard remaining human in the forest.
To move the limbs of the body,
To speak intelligible words,
These things promise change.

Opus Posthumous

James Longenbach (2012)

When I painted, everybody saw.

When I played piano, everybody heard.

I ate your raspberries.

The sign no trespassing applied to me.

Now, the hemlocks have grown higher than the house.

There's moss on my stoop, a little mildew

In the shower but you've never seen my shower.

I can undress by the window,

I can sleep in the barn.

The sky, which is cloudy,

Suits the earth to which it belongs.

On Beauty

James Longenbach (2008)

A sword held high above a goat’s head,
Then the goat with no head—
Calcutta, where my father was stationed in the war.
Tiny black-and-white snapshots in a row.

By the time his ship sighted Australia
One soldier had been burned in a vat of oatmeal,
Another swept from the deck and drowned.

What happened next was like a movie.
Soldiers clambering through knee-high water to a beach
Where villagers have set up card tables,
Platters of food—what food
The camera doesn’t care about because
Soldiers are throwing themselves on the grass,
Rubbing the red dirt on their faces, their mouths—

I overheard him tell this story to my daughter
While they were coloring Easter eggs,
Painting them with wax to resist the dye,
Tracing patterns with the head of a pin.

Our capacity to be overwhelmed by the beautiful
Survives, unlike beauty,
Amid the harshest distractions.
For white and yellow against green

Dip the egg in yellow dye, dry it, mark it
With wax again, clear paraffin,
Then submerge it in blue.