Poetry for the Feast of St. Brigid
Today, Groundhog’s Day, is also the Feast of St. Brigid.1 I conveniently forgot this little factoid until I saw other bloggers posting about the Silent Poetry Reading that has taken place for the past three years.2 Even though the event has caught me by surprise — yet again — I’ll contribute a poem this time around.
It’s from a book a poetry given to me by one of my favorite college professors, Conrad Hilberry. I had Dr. Hilberry for classes in 17th century literature and creative writing – poetry (I was a teaching assistant for him in the same poetry class the following year). Con was a very gentle and kind professor; I remember that he wrote his comments on our papers in pencil since red ink looked too harsh. He gave me a fine appreciation for the written word (and John Milton, especially).
The book was Louise Gluck‘s The House on Marshland, and I’ve loved the following poem ever since Con gave me the slim volume back in 1985.
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Gretel in Darkness
This is the world we wanted.
All who would have seen us dead
are dead. I hear the witch’s cry
break in the moonlight through a sheet
of sugar: God rewards.
Her tongue shrivels into gas . . .
Now, far from women’s arms
and memory of women, in our father’s hut
we sleep, are never hungry.
Why do I not forget?
My father bars the door, bars harm
from this house, and it is years.
No one remembers. Even you, my brother,
summer afternoons you look at me as though
you meant to leave,
as though it never happened.
But I killed for you. I see armed firs,
the spires of that gleaming kiln–
Nights I turn to you to hold me
but you are not there.
Am I alone? Spies
hiss in the stillness, Hansel,
we are there still and it is real, real,
that black forest and the fire in earnest.
- Actually, her feast day is February 1st, but for some reason the person who put out the call for the Silent Poetry Reading made it for Groundhog’s Day. Well, Imbolc, to be more precise since she’s a practicing Pagan. /shrug/ It doesn’t matter to me; I’m easy about dates and such and, oh, by the way, in doing all this research I discovered that the word for Imbolc in Gaelic, Oimelc, translates to “ewe’s milk” and that Imbolc is the festival of the lactating sheep; and that Louise Gluck’s father was a co-inventor of the X-acto knife; and, by the way, X-acto makes space-saving stand-up staplers… Yes, I got caught in one of my click, click, click “Ooooo, look — a shiny!” ‘Net surfing moments. [↩]
- The Yarn Harlot is the one who tipped me off. [↩]
