Vox Populi
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Kathryn Levy: Three Poems
The Final Inscription
I buried my dead
in a box in the attic. I shoved
too many in, though
I couldn’t find
my father’s ashes, my
lover’s warm thighs, a
mouth that muttered,
You can’t help me….
and never finished. Or the little
girl at the wire
after all of the battles—she
rolls up her sleeve to
show the stitched number,
as the cameraman stares—and rubs
at his eyes: Perhaps the battles
will never be over. —I still
scrounge for the bodies, write
stories about them
and keep the box open
as wide as I can—. And the
ones I crammed in there? They
escape every night to
whisper their secret—We
are not, we can’t be—. The
secret I have learned
how many times? And this?
I will call it The
Final Inscription—and cross out
and cross out every
line.
~~~
The Maker
I know who puts these words in your mouth
but I am not telling. I know the exact
hour of your death, and the face you’ll reach for,
and the face that will turn away forever.
I have known for ever—it is nothing
and nothing. But still not relief—
there is always a something that longs to become.
I’ve known too many humans—you have
infected my thoughts. I long to sleep but your constant
screams won’t let me. It’s not my fault, it’s
the way you’ve grown up—I try to explain, as a woman
claws at the walls, pleads for each second. I’ve heard
billions of questions—when will you stop?
Yes, you’re all so different and strangely
the same. And the meaning of this? I
hate those words. I played with some dust
and made you all up. And now, I can’t unimagine
one thing.
~~~
Flight
In memory of Adam Zagajewski
The geese are calling—this is
time to depart. They gather and sink and
soar toward somewhere. My dead
father keeps chanting—it’s finally
time to give up, as I pace to the store
with the lists in my pocket,
every line repeating depart.
My face is falling, my husband is twisting
away in his sleep, the poet I loved
shivered a little, his body
sending its message—this is
the time for not saying. And his
final poem? Not one
moment to write it. The friends
reprint the last poems,
recall the sad meetings
in the café of a city
that had survived too
many departures.
He stared in the depths
of a small glass of whiskey
where millions had drowned—though he
laughs at that thought:
not drowning but departing
in almost
perfect formation.
—Until we are ripped
from the country of almost
and the geese and the stories and even
these cherished last cries of
depart—
Copyright 2024 Kathryn Levy.
Kathryn Levy is a poet and activist. Her books include Reports (New Rivers Press, 2013) and Losing the Moon (Canio’s Editions, 2006).
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Prophetic. If the present is going to be the way it is, then poems must speak out this way.
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I agree. Thanks, Alfred.
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Three terrific poems here. Thank you, Michael Simms, for putting them out into the world.
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Thank you, Jerry, for paying attention.
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Three terrific poems here–thank you, Michael Simms, for putting them into the world.
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These poems are rich and exciting, with their mysteries left intact yet hinted at by the strong verbs and specific nouns, the slight word play. I love these and will find more of Levy’s work!
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Yes, Kathryn has a gift…
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Terrific poems…
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I love these poems! The elliptical style that leaves mystery and room for the reader while the specific imagery and nouns and verbs don’t let us stray too far into the grass, or maybe the grass invites us. I will have to find Kathryn Levy’s work.
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So personal, so universal. I found myself thinking, how does she know that? I didn’t tell her.
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yes, me too.
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Kathryn’s poems are so powerful. They often take my breath away.
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Me too.
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The power of silent despair, the personal and the collective and its poet’s eyes wide open, in each line. with care, m
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