Thursday, March 18, 2010
Kathryn Forrester Thro
Come, Beloved. You. It was you
I wished for in my travels.
You, all along. In the ice palaces,
and in the safety of Varykyno. You,
far from the politburo of the Kremlin.
Cold from my long train’s journey from
Moscow, long days through the mountains,
arriving weary at the inn, shivering
at the very threat of winter sky,
I sat alone at my small, appointed table
at a Latvian hotel, eating thick bread
like a grateful anarchist,
drank strong coffee,
seeing you in the rise of steam
from my gold-rimmed cup,
dreaming, dreaming of you far from me,
far from these winter hills,
somewhere under a blazing sun.
And I realized light had fallen from the sky
and so I climbed the winding stairs to bed.
And I said inside my room by candle light,
Yes, I am undone, then. Lost
as a child in the cavernous, canopied bed,
took up my journal from the bedside table,
my poor poet’s pen aloft,
poised as if to write some
grand and elevated truth
then knew in that instant
that you, Beloved, are my only truth.
That I am weary of wandering and
have long imagined your eyes locked,
mesmerized in mine.
You I desired in my rooms near the fireside,
upon the floor, with only the bear skin
rug beneath us, our only cover the gossamer
of sheet dragged swiftly from the bed,
a single candle flame upon the window sill.
Frost and fire. Snow sent to cool the wanton earth.
And I trembled to dream of you even then, hearing
far off bells, cathedrals at even-song. Ah, yes..
a dispensation. Eden pointing on to Paradise.
Forgiven then, long ago, the taking of me in your arms.
I think I wrote of you even in my childhood verse when
I saw angel’s wings amid the falling snow,
wind howling, wings fluttering
outside tremulous glass panes.
Earth and Heaven, heart’s desiring, yes,
the angels understand….
Your Lion heart is Legend.
So they sing Rush, come. Even now,
far from my travels, my mind plays
upon the night I realized
that my whole life is this, a prayer, and
it is simply this: God knows that I was
made for you, Rush then, come.
This ground is yours by rights.
Come, seize, and flights of angels
shall follow closely, envious,
And I say come, yes rush, come
upon me on a winter’s night.
We shall rise and rest eternally in Heaven,
yet the morning, Comrade, Beloved, shall
not hide the majesty and truth of love’s poor
wanderings nor the star’s.
Rush. come. And violins shall
never cease their
playing of our
one celestial hymn.