A house—I will not paint

‘A poet is never just a woman or a man. Every poet is salted with fire. A poet is a mirror, a transcriber.’ Susan Howe Emily could live—did live. Emily could die—did die. And every time I speak for her—the mountains straight reply— hearing with their shadows and listening with their breath. Senses, senses are breaking through—into being what is, or what may appear to be—into an ear and into the I and into us. The wreckage of our silence falls heavily in procession— as all the bells in heaven drill a welcome—welcometo this house—with everlasting windows, superior to doors. Wrestle with a swallow and try to hold it down. Consider all things beautiful—the daisies and the clouds. I was late, Emily murmured—curving against the ages of mistaken shells— leaving before the pearls responded—our time has just begun. All morning—while unaccounted for, you are a swan balancing on stem—unafraid by prattling ambition, invisible as music— as positive as sound. It beckons and it baffles into the wild, wild judgment settling in this house. Emily walks the boundaries with sighs and gentle whisperings—wooing all the branches and the branches—they are won. There is a plot of spiders— but only in a jar—sealed firmly by the melody you were told is so bright and so sweet. Break all the compasses and trash away the charts—once you have arrived—you must remove your jacket and put down your hat. Leave your notes for the birds, as money makes it scenic for Emily to slip—falling from her tiny chair— into the saddest and maddest of demands. Scolded for her hunger but celebrated for her songs—a warning siren in her throat— of a hundred flutes carved from a hundred trees. Mimicking a new species without a voice to spare. After her great pain—a formal feeling comes. First, the chills, then the stupor—the private aches of knowing what is when and the time to let it go—consecutive and slow. Concealed between the ransom of desire’s perfect goal. Glowing is Emily’s bonnet and glowing are Emily’s cheeks. Flowing is Emily’s petticoat and yet she cannot speak— As nature gently owns her—we embellish all we own. Sing three cheers for the gentleman who first observed the moon cutting the dullness of my fingers, so peculiar and perplexed— tracing the hooked lines of maps and the sweeping of the heart. As the smallest housewife—restricted to satin vests, my business is to uncover things secretly and as silent as morning dew. Bribing knowledge with roses—their industrious petals creased in my hands defied to be defined—as punctual as mystery hums— Eden is old-fashioned with unused lips in finite—spotted hours. This life is but life—and death—not death but bliss. The gains of generations wager the scholars with buccaneers of buzz. The flies are bees, the bees are wasps—the tolls of mansions rise. All the husbands are liable—not my cold and simple breasts. While measuring the nectar there is a pompous joy in power— lost in heated balm—as Emily wails her distant tunes simply wishing to outlast the sun. There are things for eyes to see and sounds for ears to hear—as a friend attacks another friend while doctors wait in chambers—for the heavy promise of a dial. The gods have spoken with mouths of berries full—agreeing houses are for birds and dear aristocracy. Too fine for twigs to measure. Fame has its own ballad—a wing and a foolish slice of cake. Loyalty is a fine invention for the necromancers and the landlords. Let us wake them with their trumpets— fluttering their teeth so frosted white—there is no more snow. Bankers, brokers, burglars—please reimburse my store. I find myself poor and absent—hoping just for more—as oars divide the oceans—too silver for a seam—though sailors still skirt the shores for bold discoveries. There is a tune an orchestra cannot chance to play. For an ear can break a human heart as quickly as a spear—as we cannot banish air from air— and trust in the faith that decoration offers conclusion here.

Autumn Royal

From the New Issue

Troubled Minds: Understanding and treating mental illness by Sidney Bloch and Nick Haslam

Until August by Gabriel García Márquez

Like Fire-Hearted Suns by Melanie Joosten

2024 Calibre Essay Prize (Winner) | ‘why your hair is long & your stories short’ by Tracey Slaughter

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