atlas, at last

A Poem by jaye river

a love letter to t.s. eliot, myself, and my life. if i were to ever publish a poetry collection, "the witness" would be the opening poem, and this one would be the closing poem.

Lorsque au soleil couchant les rivières sont roses,

Et qu’un tiède frisson court sur les champs de blé,

Un conseil d’etre heureux semble sortir des choses

Et monter vers le coeur troublé;

Un conseil de goûter le charme d’être au monde

Cependant qu’on est jeune et que le soir est beau,

Car nous nous en allons, comme s’en va cette onde:

Elle à la mer - nous au tombeau!

august stretched out lazily before me,

and brushed up against the windowpane,

it bounded across open fields and

hid under eaves to shelter from an evening rain

a summer left without a word,

of you and them, and me, too,

so quickly it passes, i have to ask,

how do i find the strength to go

and look for something new?

i grow older, but not much wiser, i’m afraid.

at least i can say i no longer wish

for rabbits like i did back in may

i’m fine with my tiger, i hang from it’s jaw,

burnt orange black fur and sand

crushed under heavy paw

in september, the more sentimental i become,

i remember autumn like my bones,

i suppose i spent so long holding back what i feel,

that now when i think, it just overflows

and i’ve learned that every big feeling is

relative to love or fear;

so, the rage i feel is fine,

burning in me like the tiger’s teeth in throat

at least it’s something new

because i heard the sound of every brick they’ve thrown,
bloodshot and i sink like a stone,

you call my name every time i think i’m alone,

well -

you live in me,

needle and thread stitched into my skin,

i tried to unravel the string but it hurt and i bled

september carries on, though i feel

something in me is changing. like

the stir and stutter of dead leaves on the ground

in the morning of autumn when

a light breeze comes around

i felt my wings rip apart from my body,

shoulder blades left raw and bloodied,

i collapsed, my forehead touching the ground,

my bleeding back facing heaven,

mutilated; but

i carry on, i carry on because

i know there’s nothing permanent about

you or this body, except the rot, but

even that which consumes us changes

for me, at first, it was self destruction,

i wanted to make a mistake, to

lose control like my father, my brothers,

my maker;

but i could not because they all did, and

the orchids got torn up but

the roots remain, deeply sunk

into the dirt, all the same

and landlords, patronizing fathers,

heady brokers and the like -

(all of which stretched my mental state too thin)

are paradoxically too self absorbed and self consumed

to know to look to find something from within!

but i observe with something like envy or contempt:

to destroy oneself with no remorse,

i wanted to make a mistake, to make it count,

to burn and rage and face no recourse

‘i’ll choose a man right off the street,

the next one i see, yes sir!

you will do, go ahead and see if you can hurt me!’

as i grow older, and i grow

still, my wings had been torn off, yes,

and the blood ran down my back

and stained my spine and the green leaves,

i learn to walk and feel the blades of

grass under my feet

my young and troubled mind and my restless heart,

the meat of cherries are so sweet and tart

i hope, at least, when you bit inside,

you broke through the seed and tasted cyanide

because i’ve killed before, and i’ll kill again,

what happened to me - there was no cause

for justice, no natural retribution;

so, i took it into my weakened hands and

conjured my own solution

no apologies, no closure needed,

if you mean it, you would sink into the dirt,

i’d be able to close my eyes and fall asleep,

only then, would my plan have succeeded

i grew tired of being always the fool,

always finding ladders and marks on trees left by hunters,

always “no trespassing” signs,

bloodhound tracing a trail that’s just a circle

i grew tired of giving everything for nothing at all,

just an ugly dog with sharp teeth and claws

dogs tend to find their way back home, even if they have to limp along the side of the road, whimpering with dried blood on their fur. because they’re loyal and stupid and will try to crawl their way back, even if it kills them in the process.

but i grew tired of being a bloodhound,

sniffing out animals that were already dead.

‘my fragile fawn, porcelain doll, personal doll’

the poison you gave me goes down like honey,

my lips and fingertips sticky with something,

i feel your hands on my throat,

i said doing this won’t save you,

you said “that’s not why i do it”

i said i love you, don’t ever speak to me again

je n’en connais pas la fin

enough talk of fruit and blood,

of orchid roots still embedded in the mud,

like the smell of smoke, you linger,

and my thoughts are obscured

you’re always walking on someone’s bones,

America, the fires burnt down our homes, America

i crashed into a party of debutantes and young lords,

they thought i was seeking what glittered

in the ornate light, when really all i wanted

was a taste of sweet wine and to hear

the music

oh, suite music, incidental

in London;

at a pub down the street from the place in which i stayed,

a young man i don’t know talks of the city, i pretend to understand

with my four days of knowledge of the place, and

i think about how intricate and careful you were at pretending to love me,

and how the alleyways and winding roads glow

under stars and street lamps in the most bittersweet way.

as i walked back to my room, a little foggy-headed but still a little sharp,

i thought about how i will never get answers from you,

and how i promised myself you will never hear from me again, so

i realized there was nowhere for my rage to go.

several cars drive past, splashing water up onto the pavement,

glistening and soaking the dead leaves,

intermittently -

and we circle the drain, maybe you’ll forget me

and we can meet again, and you’ll

love me just the same, how terrifying…

maybe you should love me differently, next time

for now, i lay sideways on the grass, and

my blood thirsty tiger rests its head in the crook

of my neck and lays against my back

the leaves and grass bend backwards in our shape,

curled up together, i sing a song of myself

and i think of tree branches, how they spread

in their different directions

the skin of my hands, stretched too thin across my bones,

it cracks and bleeds like an ivory egg,

you could take my finger and it’d snap like twigs

i look at the shape the sun makes on the trunks of trees

and remember something

oh, young man who is just like his father,

i worry and give a wry smile when i see you,

sardonic remarks and weak defenses

are no match for me anymore -

anything you do, i just see through

my brothers, my sister and mother -

please come with me,

though autumn creeps in slowly,

september cannot escape the hurricanes

i tried to write him a letter:

‘i found out you left town when i saw your house for sale in the paper,

you never called to let me know’

but i threw it in the fire, he won’t read it. i know

he won’t. that other letter, from grandmother,

is still sat at his desk, unopened, i know

i know, i know, i know

Heil’ge Nacht, du sinkest nieder;

Nieder wallen auch die Träume,

Wie dein Mondlicht durch die Räume,

Durch der Menschen stille Brust.

Die belauschen sie mit Lust;

Rufen, wenn der Tag erwacht:

Kehre wieder, heil’ge Nacht!

Holde Träume, kehret wieder!

when i was young, a mother bird

built a nest right by my window,

safe in the rhododendron bush,

she used clumps of my own hair to build the nest,

and everyday i watched her and

her tiny babies grow

and those purple rhododendron flowers

bloomed so nicely on the branch,

but i more-so loved the way

the petals shed on the ground and

marked the path, up the steps,

into my home

into my home where i often found

strays of my hair i had shed,

or my mother’s -

i can’t tell the difference,

as she colors her hair, but

the roots are the same

as mine on her head

and i admit, reluctantly, i want to be remembered,

at the very least, by the tiger who’s teeth sink into my neck,

and at the very most, the mother bird who’s hair of mine she used for the nest

and when i die, i’d like to be put inside an urn,

though i’d like to say, bury me in east coker,

should i decide not to burn

i like being alone and i’m going to go where i’m meant to be,

and i like that we gave it our all, and i like that there’s nothing left for you and me

and if everything i just said is a lie, at least i tried to bide my time till it’s time for me to die.

for now, i’ll just try to bend in the breeze, they keep telling me i don’t need to fight, but nothing they say can put my mind at ease

because when your heart’s like a stone, you can feel the weight of the world in your bones

i’ll try to find something, something, but for now…

i hold up Earth in the sky, and observe,

the oceans slip through my fingers like tiny waterfalls

the pacific

the atlantic,

just trickling down…

dripping sink faucet

i feel hopeful and dangerous, i collect covers of the new yorker

and i know it’s an overwhelming question, but do you think i am cursed forever?

Author's Note

i have already tweaked this one quite a bit, but i am always open to feedback and suggestions!

a note - i wanted to incorporate some small passages in other languages, a somewhat common practice in 20th century modernist poetry.

the french passage at the beginning is an excerpt from an art song composed by Claude Debussy, titled "Beau Soir". i sang it while studying music. the lyrics are from a poem by Paul Bourget.
here is a translation:

"When at sunset the rivers are pink
And a warm breeze ripples the fields of wheat,
All things seem to advise content -
And rise toward the troubled heart;

Advise us to savour the gift of life,
While we are young and the evening fair,
For our life slips by, as that river does:
It to the sea - we to the tomb."

the german passage is an excerpt from an art song composed by Franz Schubert, titled "Nacht und Träume". another song i learned while studying music. the lyrics are from a poem written by Matthäus Casimir von Collin.

here is a translation:

"Holy night, you sink down;
dreams, too, float down,
like your moonlight through space,
through the silent hearts of men.
They listen with delight,
crying out when day awakes:
come back, holy night!
Fair dreams, return!"

both songs hold significance in my life and a special place in my heart. i always thought the lyrics were beautiful, and thought it would be a fitting addition to the poem.

My Review

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Reviews

NormaZ

I love how you combine the dark (the tiger, blood), with the light (august brushing up against the windowpane, and the shape of the sun on the trees), such delicious metaphors! Do you speak French and German? I don’t know a ton about poetry, but I know good poetry when I read it, and yours is really good. You might look into taking a class and getting some feedback from a “real” poet. There are a lot of zoom classes and groups too.