The Cult of Relics

My father's serviette ring,
silver incised with a design
of Scotch thistles, the central medallion
uninitialled, a blank oval.
                                        The two massive
German kitchen knives, pre-1914, not-stainless steel,
which my mother carefully scoured with Vim
after each use.
                        My daily use
of these and other such things
links me to hands long gone.

Medieval con-men disgust and amuse us,
we think we'd never have fallen
for such crude deceptions - unholy
animal bones, nails from any old barn,
splinters enough from the Cross to fill
a whole lumber-yard.
                                   But can we
with decency mock the gullible
for desiring these things?
                                      Who doesn't want
to hold what hands belov'd or venerated
were accustomed to hold? - You? I?
                                                who wouldn't want
to put their lips to the true chalice?

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by Denise Levertov, 1996

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

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by Robert Frost, 1923

An Imaginable Conference

MR. HENRY GREEN, INDUSTRIALIST, AND MR. WALLACE STEVENS,
VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE HARTFORD ACCIDENT & INDEMNITY CO.,
MEET IN THE COURSE OF BUSINESS

Exchanging gentle grips, the men retire,
prologued by courteous bumbling at the door -
retreat to where a rare room deep exists
on an odd floor, subtly carpeted. Here walls

wear charts like checkered vests and blotters ape
the green of cricket fields. Glass multiplies
the pausing men to twice infinity.
An inkstand of blue marble has been carven;

no young girl's wrist is more discreetly veined.
An office boy misplaced and slack intrudes,
apologizes speaking without commas
"Oh sorry sirs I thought" which signifies

what well-meant wimbly wambly stuff it is
we seem to be made of. Beyond the room,
the gander sun's pure rhetoric ferments
imbroglios of bloom. The stone is so.

The pair confer in murmurings, with words
select and Sunday-soft. No more is known,
but rumor goes that as they hatched the deal,
vistas of lilac weighted their shrewd lids.

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by John Updike, 1955

My Idle Dreams Roam Far

My idle dreams roam far,
To the southern land where spring is fragrant.
Wind and strings play on a boat on the river's clear surface,
The city is full of catkins flying like light dust.
People are occupied admiring the flowers.
My idle dreams roam far,
To the southern land where autumn is clear.
For a thousand li over rivers and hills cold colours stretch far,
Deep in flowering reeds, a solitary boat is moored.
Beneath the bright moon, a flute plays in the tower.

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by Li Yu, 970 AD

Departures

They seemed to all take off
at once: Aunt Grace
whose kidneys closed shop;
Cousin Rose who fed sugar
to diabetes;
my grandmother's friend
who postponed going so long
we thought she'd stay.

It was like the summer years ago
when they all set out on trains
and ships, wearing hats with veils
and the proper gloves,
because everybody was going
someplace that year,
and they didn't want
to be left behind.

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by Linda Pastan, 1985