Anne Whitehouse
One Summer Day on the Number One Train
When the doors of the express opened at 72 Street,
the local was waiting. She entered with me,
tall and angular as a crane, her expression alert,
violin poised against her clavicle like a wing.
The train was half-empty, the passengers dozing
or absorbed in their smartphones.
She stood at one end of the car, her gaze
swiftly appraising us, while the doors slid shut.
Closing her eyes, she lifted her bow
and dipped her chin, and into that pause
went all the years of preparation
that had brought her to this moment.
The train accelerated in a rush of cacophony,
her music welled up, and I recognized
a Bach concerto blossoming to fullness
like an ever-opening rose. Suddenly
I was crying for no reason and every reason,
in front of strangers. I thought of the courtroom
where, an hour ago, I’d sat listening to testimony
with fellow jurors, charged to determine the facts
and follow the law. But no matter how we tried,
we couldn’t reverse damage or undo wrong.
The music was contrast and balm, like sunlight
in subterranean air. The tears wet on my cheeks,
I broke into applause, joined by fellow passengers.
We’d become an audience, her audience,
just before the doors opened and we scattered.
Making my offering, I exited, too shy to catch her eye.
But she’d seen the effect her music had wrought.
Its echo resounded in my memory, following me
into the glory of the summer afternoon.
It is with me still.
My Last Spring in my House and Garden
I planted my sanctuary
for a future I will not see--
where I lived for 35 years,
where I’d hoped to grow old.
I sit motionless under the trees
and watch my blossoms falling
and bruising on the ground.
If I could, I would slip
into the soil like a buried seed.
Instead I am being blown far,
far away—I, who always
clung so close to home.
When he walked out of the marriage,
it was as if lightning struck our oak,
splitting it in half, not cleanly,
but with spikes and jagged edges.
No more soaring trunk,
no more roots in this fertile earth,
watered by my tears,
sparkling in the spring sun.
At the Ocean
A soft breeze blows
through my baggy clothes,
awakening my skin like a lover.
Every leaf and blade of grass
is in motion,
every nodding wildflower
beckons me to the cove,
where the sea washes over the rocks,
and the wet sand is printed
with the tracks of waterbirds.
The tide is coming in,
and I am almost too late to swim out
to the rock I have always swum to--
carpeted with soft seaweeds,
purple and green, that I hold onto
like Rapunzel’s hair, and climb
until I stand up free in the air
as the day I was born.
Soon the rock will be buried
in the dark sea.
But I find my balance,
grip the seaweeds with my toes,
while the cold water washes
over my ankles and splashes my shins.
Anne Whitehouse is the author of five poetry collections–The Surveyor’s Hand, Blessings and Curses, Bear in Mind, One Sunday Morning, and The Refrain. A sixth collection, Meteor Shower, is forthcoming from Dos Madres Press. She is a winner of the 2015 Nazim Hikmet poetry prize, and her poem “Calligraphies” won the 2016 Songs of Eretz poetry prize. Her novel Fall Love will be published in Spanish translation as Amigos y amantes in 2016 by Mundi Books. www.annewhitehouse.com
One Summer Day on the Number One Train
When the doors of the express opened at 72 Street,
the local was waiting. She entered with me,
tall and angular as a crane, her expression alert,
violin poised against her clavicle like a wing.
The train was half-empty, the passengers dozing
or absorbed in their smartphones.
She stood at one end of the car, her gaze
swiftly appraising us, while the doors slid shut.
Closing her eyes, she lifted her bow
and dipped her chin, and into that pause
went all the years of preparation
that had brought her to this moment.
The train accelerated in a rush of cacophony,
her music welled up, and I recognized
a Bach concerto blossoming to fullness
like an ever-opening rose. Suddenly
I was crying for no reason and every reason,
in front of strangers. I thought of the courtroom
where, an hour ago, I’d sat listening to testimony
with fellow jurors, charged to determine the facts
and follow the law. But no matter how we tried,
we couldn’t reverse damage or undo wrong.
The music was contrast and balm, like sunlight
in subterranean air. The tears wet on my cheeks,
I broke into applause, joined by fellow passengers.
We’d become an audience, her audience,
just before the doors opened and we scattered.
Making my offering, I exited, too shy to catch her eye.
But she’d seen the effect her music had wrought.
Its echo resounded in my memory, following me
into the glory of the summer afternoon.
It is with me still.
My Last Spring in my House and Garden
I planted my sanctuary
for a future I will not see--
where I lived for 35 years,
where I’d hoped to grow old.
I sit motionless under the trees
and watch my blossoms falling
and bruising on the ground.
If I could, I would slip
into the soil like a buried seed.
Instead I am being blown far,
far away—I, who always
clung so close to home.
When he walked out of the marriage,
it was as if lightning struck our oak,
splitting it in half, not cleanly,
but with spikes and jagged edges.
No more soaring trunk,
no more roots in this fertile earth,
watered by my tears,
sparkling in the spring sun.
At the Ocean
A soft breeze blows
through my baggy clothes,
awakening my skin like a lover.
Every leaf and blade of grass
is in motion,
every nodding wildflower
beckons me to the cove,
where the sea washes over the rocks,
and the wet sand is printed
with the tracks of waterbirds.
The tide is coming in,
and I am almost too late to swim out
to the rock I have always swum to--
carpeted with soft seaweeds,
purple and green, that I hold onto
like Rapunzel’s hair, and climb
until I stand up free in the air
as the day I was born.
Soon the rock will be buried
in the dark sea.
But I find my balance,
grip the seaweeds with my toes,
while the cold water washes
over my ankles and splashes my shins.
Anne Whitehouse is the author of five poetry collections–The Surveyor’s Hand, Blessings and Curses, Bear in Mind, One Sunday Morning, and The Refrain. A sixth collection, Meteor Shower, is forthcoming from Dos Madres Press. She is a winner of the 2015 Nazim Hikmet poetry prize, and her poem “Calligraphies” won the 2016 Songs of Eretz poetry prize. Her novel Fall Love will be published in Spanish translation as Amigos y amantes in 2016 by Mundi Books. www.annewhitehouse.com