Vox Populi
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Mary Jane White: When Was I Ever So Happy
As when I slipped and you took my arm?
I was laughing since I might have slipped badly
On the white stone, the slick white stone
Edging the step, and every step like it
On all the small bridges over the canals
In Venice. No, I agreed with you, soberly,
It would not be good if I fell. To wind up
In the hospital in Venice, when, yes,
I had just escaped the hospital at home.
.
Where it was colder than this, with snow
There, although it was cold then in Venice too.
Rain. Our first days of January: watermarked.
Or there was cold fog over the lagoon, so
The columns of St. Mark’s rose into the whiteness.
.
Although we were stubbornly cold to the bone
With no heat on — to spare buying the least gas
From the Russians. Although the news from
Ukraine remained unrelentingly horrible. With
Only a hot plate and a small box of a refrigerator
That froze up unless we unplugged it regularly.
Since you were by then adept at boiling pasta
In the microwave. Although the wi-fi was
Spotty, only available at the single window.
.
I learnt to make coffee in the wasp-waisted
Metal steamer. Since we walked daily out of
That dark place, all over the island and
The outlying islands, to Lido. We kept warm,
Even in the cemetery. No, I had never been happier
.
To see you—to have seen you navigate the wild.
Copyright 2023 Mary Jane White
Mary Jane White is a poet and translator who lives in Iowa. Her recent books include Dragonfly. Toad. Moon (Press 53, 2022) and After Russia: Poems by Marina Tsvetaeva (Adelaide Books, New York/Lisbon, 2021).
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Such a resonant love poem.
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yes, I feel very moved by this poem.
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A lovely, piercing poem ❤️
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Yes, Mary Jane White has an immaculate ear for the music of English.
>
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Thank you. This is for my grown son whom I really do adore!
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I also have a grown son I adore. Lucky us! ❤️
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Lucky you, lucky me, maybe this is how the poem speaks to you . . .
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There is so much here and so much to connect to memories or dreams of what might have been. So easy to place myself in the stream. Is there a word for memories we long for but never had?
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memorias desideramus
latin for ‘we miss the memories’
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Thank you
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