The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
- Elizabeth Bishop
Ascent
my hand punctures a cloud
glitter dapples my thumb
burns like wildfire up my arm
how high we climb on the wings
of art how low we stoop
to scoop flecks of gold
our miner's pan swills with hope
somewhere in the Rocky Mountains
streams splash against stone
burrow through meadows wash
the paste of life from a hiker's boots
I step past wildflowers pick the brightest
climb to the plateau of contemplation
one false move and all images collapse
I ride the cloud into burning light
I am
I do not know if I exist
if life exists if time exists
burning with fever
I die the lover's death
again and again
sweet torrents of ecstasy
St. Teresa lies low on the altar
lips parted body limp
dying from pain and pleasure
at the hands of boyish angels
lodged in the chambers
of her crystal castle
on the streets of Rome
I tramp
toward Piazza Navona
Bernini's muscular offspring
siphon water from the fountain
funnel it back into the pool
only tourists dare bathe here
past the point of caring
I am
escorted by Keats and Shelley
to the San Sebastiano Catacombs
diagrams on the walls trace the losses and loves
of martyrs awash in ochers and pinks
unrelenting witness to the One
who curls the beard of Neptune
who births behemoths
in the wine-dark sea
I slide into its loving depths emerge
shivering that once again
I am
(c) Arlice W. Davenport 2024
Every Angel Is Terror
Rilke paces past the parapets
of Duino Castle / thunder rattles
the black-slate roof / tiles tumble
into shattered rubble that blocks
the groundskeeper's path / he peers
into the black sky and trembles
Rilke obsesses on the host
of angels descending to Earth
lightning strikes a century-old pine
sparks and splinters sputter to the sea
only water can heal / only waves
can assuage the anguished self
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the Angelic
Orders? And even if one were to suddenly
take me to its heart, I would vanish into its
stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but
the beginning of terror, that we are still able to bear,
and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains
to destroy us. Every Angel is terror.
terror trails Rilke to his chambers / cold gloomy
as welcoming as death / why must we torment
ourselves to produce great art to write the poem
that expresses all poetry that traps in its net
the ground and goal of Being / who breaks free
who hides behind bulkheads as rain pummels
I map the path Rilke takes toward dawn over Trieste
the lambent light woos the dreamer awake / sun crackles
through clouds showers the earth with warmth / I sense
the brush of angel wings / blood drains from my face /
have I seen a ghost / am I drunk on terror / has Rilke sung
the final word of beauty that spurs us ever closer to our death
Excerpt from "First Duino Elegy," 1923, translated by J. B. Leishman and Stephen Spender. London: Hogarth Press, 1939.
(c) Arlice W. Davenport 2024
Desert Elegy
1.
angels pound the finishing stones in place
her grave burgeons with scarves and jewels
they cling to the casket like barnacles
they adhere to what kicks underground
sheep meander in search of clumps of green
angel tools predate the Earth they wrestle the soil
consecrate their place in it / Gaia gapes in astonish-ment
spirit and intellection sling the Big Bang
toward its birthing pangs / clouds assume
the forms of wings / light irradiates itself
all shines white / the eye’s pure gold
2.
I trudge the salt beds of Death Valley
lowest place in the hemisphere hottest
place this side of hell / you must make
the desert your lover / you must build
ephemeral altars out of emptiness and ocher
you must test the depths of graves
they shrink in the sun / donkeys keep watch over them
in pairs / they notice nuance / a tear signals malady
a sob the long-awaited deluge
I admire the colors of their coats and walk on
3.
in my dreams angels wear overcoats
and elongated faces / like donkeys they disapprove
of my waywardness and brush dirt from their hands
dust to dust one proclaims as the sun dies into night
only to rise again / its absence chills my bones
its presence scalds my scalp / I stumble upon the gray
wooden handle of
a shovel laid parallel to her grave
I squint for a message / I know it must be "forever love"
which blossoms like a redbud but is never written down
(c) Arlice W. Davenport 2024