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Index
Cover Title Page Note to the Reader Dedication Contents Part One
The beloved is dead Who wants to lose the world When I open the Book It’s not magic; it isn’t a trick Sadness is there, too Isis kneels on the banks The poem is written on the body “What is life?” The things that die I read the Book for years I’ve known grief I want to go back How easy to give up hope There’s nothing occult going on Can a river flow beside itself ? When Sappho wrote How radiant and pale Salt on the roads melts The river has a single song The world comes into the poem Smart or dumb? Who cares? Those who wake If death, then grief, right? Suppose you could evoke Those dreams in which a phantom Everything dies. Nothing dies. Silence The beloved has gone away Some of the poems are clear Tears and laughter Reading and writing poems Lighten up, lighten up Too many mysteries
Part Two
To feel, to feel, to feel Sometimes happy, sometimes sad Or is it loss ahead Concentrating on those motions To lose the loved one Even the saddest poems have journeyed Nothing more beautiful than the body Someone else called out Why should the grave be final? Listening to Bach’s solo suites Now the snow is falling It’s winter and I think of spring I never planned to die When my kids look for me I hope How small the eyes of hate How large the eyes of love Scratched with a stick in snow To become the tree Could it all be said in a single poem Who can measure the gratitude When we’re young there’s lots To add our own suffering To hold a pane of glass Nesting dolls Of course, a book about living When you are sad To be alive Calm down, calm down So obvious that the voice can cease Facing away from the light Weeping, weeping, weeping The human heart To loll in a sensual torpor I saw my own body How to exhaust the inexhaustible? Time to shut up We’d only just met Snow on the tree branch Tired of the body? You might think
Part Three
All the different books you read You can read the world How badly the world needs words How the crocus pops up The dandelion, too Oh, I know: the beloved They said to me: here Let’s remake the world with words In the spring swamp Weighed down with the weight Humid morning The sun: a hot hand No one is grateful How could that Chinese poet July sun on the green leaves Hummingbird’s furious Whitman’s list of the things he could see Today only a single poem Waking now, and we didn’t even know No one I ever believed said The beloved often Spasm and sadness To Guillaume Apollinaire, the beloved Saying the word Not the first lessons of grief We exist in the mortal world only Skitterbugs on the stream’s surface How is it I’m tired The grapes taste good Some say you’re lucky When you’re afraid How can lines The poet approaches the lectern
Part Four
Bittersweet, bittersweet Ripeness of summer Wildness of the world There’s the daisy Yes, our human time is finite Last night, a huge storm All that sorrow When we lost the beloved Rain last night Naked before the beloved No postmortems, please Oh, to be deeply naked I thought I was hunting Long night on the road If we could have the world Autumn with its too-muchness Is the beloved greedy Eyes blurred with tears My mother’s joy What suffering! What did someone cynically A song of resurrection played The world looks When the world Not deepest grief If deepest grief is hell And it happens, of course This room crowded Clearing out the room I put the beloved Not the loss alone Memories: embers Scar they stare at
Part Five
Now the leaves are falling fiercely Not to make loss beautiful The beloved moves through the world The world so huge and dark Going to the reading You went to the reading Expecting so much Such a shaking The poem didn’t express That desolation is the door Some days it’s all fuzzy Body of the beloved How lucky we are For me, my brother Invisible distance between Words not just the empty Hold off, rain Where did the beloved go? Even before speech The motions so cautious To see the beloved Were we invited? Acrobatic postures I enjoyed If a peach leads you into the world Autumn Sudden shower Do words outlast Did the beloved die? Why should it all Black marks No longer a part You lost the beloved And if not you, then who? An anthology gathered His song was about the world
About the Author Books by Gregory Orr Links Acknowledgments Copyright Special Thanks
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