Ours are the streets where Bess first met her
cancer. She went to work every day past the
secure houses. At her job in the library
she arranged better and better flowers, and when
students asked for books her hand went out
to help. In the last year of her life
she had to keep her friends from knowing
how happy they were. She listened while they
complained about food or work or the weather.
And the great national events danced
their grotesque, fake importance. Always
Pain moved where she moved. She walked
ahead; it came. She hid; it found her.
No one ever served another so truly;
no enemy ever meant so strong a hate.
It was almost as if there was no room
left for her on earth. But she remembered
where joy used to live. She straightened its flowers;
she did not weep when she passed its houses;
and when finally she pulled into a tiny corner
and slipped from pain, her hand opened
again, and the streets opened, and she wished all well.
from The Way It Is: New and Selected Poems.
Click on the title to go to poetryfoundation.org's posting of Bess. Click on the poet's name to learn more about William E. Stafford.
Sometimes I walk by similar houses full of souls with Life's disproportinate concerns.
ReplyDeleteThis piece truly encapsulates my insight and feelings albeit in the absence of Bess's insidious terminal malady and pain.
That was a beautiful, touching portrait of Bess.
ReplyDeleteI especially like the line "she had to keep her friends from knowing how happy they were". That is so true. We really never take the time to realize how good we've got it - until it's too late...
Thank you for this poem.
It's a wonderful poem!
ReplyDelete