the birds praise Joan of Arc
at Domrémy the pigeons sing
with a do, and a re, and a mi—
at Vaucouleurs all in a ring
the hens refuse to lay—
the cygnets at Chinon are mute
yet show astounding signs—
at Orléans a sparrowhawk
swoops low among the pines—
the lark that rises over Reims
in sheer elation calls
and, thrilling to its own refrain,
forgets itself, and falls—
a dove that nests in Paris’s walls
has warmed a cuckoo’s egg—
outside the castle of Compiègne
a clutch of vultures fledge—
the ravens of Rouen
cry ru-in out of tune—
(above Poissy, a halcyon
goes flying toward the sun)
Will
In the penthouse apartment on the highest story
of the tallest skyscraper in the Western Canon,
he’s sitting sadly on his Elizabethan couch
in linen underclothes and quilted banyan,
his left hand straying toward a tiny snuffbox
that stands half-open on the sofa table.
You see, dear reader, through the bedroom door,
a dusty mountainside of breeches, hose,
and doublets, as a yellowed, snuff-stained ruff
drifts off the bed, goes floating gently down
in lukewarm breeze. These days, he’s too depressed
to ring for laundry service. Not a soul
would mourn for Shakespeare if he died again.
He has no friends to take him out for drinks,
no partner (neither Youth nor Lady) who
would ever dream of fucking with the Bard,
and certainly no parents he could call.
Depression, isolation, sublimation, says
his psychoanalyst. She ought to know.
What brave new words that have such Latin in ’em!
In short, he’s only lonely, though that’s not
for lack of love. Seems everyone is an adoring fan.
The mail, the posts, the tweets keep pouring in—
<3 @Shakespeare, #amreading @Shakespeare,
@Shakespeare #lovepoems #quoteoftheday.
He sighs, and thinks of Walt, of Emily
two stories down, or Sappho, who has never once said boo
to him, although she has to know he’s here—
her place, now his—less spacious, strangely,
after renovation. Fixed rent in perpetuity. Alas!
He sighs again and takes a pinch of snuff.
And on the mantlepiece, the poplar clock
ticks on till Doomsday, which will never come.
Selfie
I am the girl who reads when she walks,
with nothing to do in the afternoon
but head to her favorite coffee shop.
I read a few pages every block.
You think I’m crazy, but it’s true—
I know when to sidestep, when to stop.
I’ve never tripped or collided with you.
I am the girl who reads when she walks,
one of your local eccentric types.
I wear bohemian skirts and tops.
If my teachers hadn’t called me bright,
if my father and I had never fought,
if the neighborhood weren’t so gentrifed,
would I still exist? Conceivably not.
I am the girl who reads when she walks.
If the book is in German or Latin or French,
I read aloud. By the vacant lot
all girded round with a chain-link fence,
you’ll find me on a public bench,
still reading. Would you like to watch?
I am a girl. Who reads when she walks?
“the birds praise Joan of Arc” first appeared in Mezzo Cammin 15, no. 2 (February 2021) ; “Will” first appeared in Sonnets for Shakespeare (2020), a fundraiser for Shakespeare’s Globe and The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust.