late to the funeral

I read today of the passing late last year of a classmate of mine from college.  I knew her as the 19th century-looking, curly tressed, intelligent-eyed woman I found intriguing.  I knew she was a writer, but only discovered she was a poet the last time I saw her.  At college, like I said, I was intrigued and definitely covetous of her eyes and hair.  I could tell she was smart and funny, but our paths crossed rarely, and we never got to know one another.  Then I saw her when I was living in Baltimore.  She apparently was getting an MA in writing, while I was getting a degree in early childhood special education.  I remember seeing her, among other random Yalies, while living in Charles Village.  Charles Village is the Hopkins neighborhood where my apartment was robbed twice and I dated a poetic, abusive, heavy-drinking funny-man named James.  I wonder what kind of time she had in Charm City?  Did she frequent Club Charles?  PJ's?  Then I moved to New York, to be with my love -- the man I was sure I'd be with almost as soon as I met him.  Alex.  We lived in Morningside Heights, the neighborhood surrounding Columbia University.  I don't remember exactly when, or how often, but I saw her again, walking in the neighborhood.  And then again at a party, and we finally talked.  Maybe we spoke in college, we couldn't remember.  But we remembered one another, as random people who went to school together.  That's when I discovered she was a poet.  I was still taken with her eyes and her curls.  She was sitting back, sipping wine, laughing with a friend, and being open and interested.  

I obviously hardly knew this woman, but for some reason, maybe it was the repeated sightings, she always stuck in my memory.  I think it probably happens a lot.  People who should have been friends, but because of different paths, social circles, whatever, only glance at one another.  Or rather, glance off of one another through time.

She had achieved success as a poet, published three books of poetry, and was recently the poetry editor for the New Republic.  I'll post three of her poems below.  The first two are about the neighborhood she and I lived in in the city.  I hope you enjoy them enough to look up more of her poems.  I know I am going to.  I hope you find peace, Rachel.

Sakura Park

The park admits the wind,

the petals lift and scatter

like versions of myself I was on the verge

of becoming; and ten years on

and ten blocks down I still can’t tell

whether this dispersal resembles

a fist unclenching or waving goodbye.

But the petals scatter faster,

seeking the rose, the cigarette vendor,

and at least I’ve got by pumping heart

some rules of conduct: refuse to choose

between turning pages and turning heads

though the stubborn dine alone. Get over

“getting over”: dark clouds don’t fade

but drift with ever deeper colors.

Give up on rooted happiness

(the stolid trees on fire!) and sweet reprieve

(a poor park but my own) will follow.

There is still a chance the empty gazebo

will draw crowds from the greater world.

And meanwhile, meanwhile’s far from nothing:

the humming moment, the rustle of cherry trees.

Short Ode to Morningside Heights

Convergence of worlds, old stomping ground,
comfort me in my dark apartment
when my latest complaint shrinks my focus
to a point so small its hugely present
but barely there, and I fill the air
with all the spiteful words I spared the streets.

The pastry shop’s abuzz
with crazy George and filthy graffiti,
but the peacocks are strutting across the way
and the sumptuous cathedral gives
the open-air banter a reason to deepen:
build structures inside the mind, it tells
the languorous talkers, to rival the ones outside!

Things are and are not solid.
As Opera Night starts at Caffe Taci,
shapes hurry home with little red bags,
but do they watch the movies they hold
or do they forego movies for rooftops
where they catch Low’s floating dome in the act
of always being about to fly away?

Ranters, racers, help me remember
that the moon-faced fountain’s the work of many hands,
that people linger at Toast long after we’ve left.
And as two parks frame the neighborhood—
green framing gray and space calming clamor—
be for me, well-worn streets, a context
I can’t help carrying home, a night fugue
streaming over my one-note how, when, why.
Be the rain for my barren indoor cry.

--Rachel Wetzsteon

Commands for the End of Summer

i.

Deepen,
leaves, not with what
has made us sorry but
with what was profound about that
sorrow.

ii.

Make me
spontaneous,
gathering winds, but don’t
blow so giddily I teeter
too much.

iii.

Songs I
listened to all
summer long, accept my
thanks: to regress is not to move
backward.

iv.

Splash of
patchouli on
my wrist, remind me that
in this cauldron there is a world
elsewhere.

v.

Smile! Those
days of humid
agony have earned you
the right to a hundred purple
sunsets.

vi.

Come, fall,
I can feel you
stirring, I can hardly
wait for the things that will happen
come fall.

--Rachel Wetzsteon