Figures in a Landscape

Figures in a Landscape

by Gail Mazur
     
 

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A new inclusiveness, a heady freedom, grounded in the facts of mortality, inform Gail Mazur’s recent poems, as if making them has served as both a bunker and a promontory, a way to survive, and to be exposed to, the profound underlying subject of this book: a husband’s approaching death. The intimate particulars of a shared life are seen from a

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Overview

A new inclusiveness, a heady freedom, grounded in the facts of mortality, inform Gail Mazur’s recent poems, as if making them has served as both a bunker and a promontory, a way to survive, and to be exposed to, the profound underlying subject of this book: a husband’s approaching death. The intimate particulars of a shared life are seen from a great height—and then there’s the underlife of the bunker: endurance, holding on, life as uncompromising reality. This new work, possessed by the unique devil-may-care intensity of someone writing at the end of her nerves, makes Figures in a Landscape feel radiant, visionary, and exhilarating, rather than elegiac. Mazur’s masterly fusion of abstraction with the facts of a life creates a coming to terms with what Yeats called “the aboriginal ice.”

Editorial Reviews

Tikkun
“Gail Mazur asks the fundamental questions of a life animated by a social and existential conscience. . . . Her language hums with a tension between an unflinching account of motive and a fluent lyrical grace.”—Tikkun

 

Women's Review of Books
"Gail Mazur reinvigorates her longstanding themes with linguistic precision and surprising turns. . . . With insight and originality, she takes on poetry's great themes and takes readers into deep, psychic terrain."

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780226514413
Publisher:
University of Chicago Press
Publication date:
04/15/2011
Series:
Phoenix Poets Series
Pages:
96
Sales rank:
1,187,404
Product dimensions:
5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.40(d)

Read an Excerpt

Figures in a Landscape


By GAIL MAZUR

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS

Copyright © 2011 The University of Chicago
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-226-51441-3


Chapter One

    HERMIT


    In ancient Greece, a man could withdraw into the desert
    to praise his gods in solitude—

    he'd live out his days by himself in a cave of sand.
    Eremos, Greek for desert—you could look it up.

    Hermit crabs live mostly alone
    in their self-chosen hermitages, they learn young

    to muscle their soft asymmetrical bodies
    into abandoned mollusk shells.

    Without shells, those inadequate bodies
    wouldn't have survived the centuries,

    so they tuck their abdomens and weak back legs inside
    the burden they'll carry on their backs.

    It was Aristotle who first observed
    they could move from one shell to another.

    But sometimes a hermit crab is social—
    sometimes a sandworm, a ragworm,

    will live with it inside a snail shell.
    And sometimes when the crab outgrows its shell

    it will remove its odd companion
    and bring it along to a new larger shell.

    (The Greeks who taught the Western world
    what could be achieved by living together

    were also the first in that world to work out
    a philosophical justification for living alone.)

    If the home it chooses isn't vacant
    it will use its large pincer claw to extract

    the old inhabitant—usually a dead, or dying,
    or less aggressive hermit crab.

    Then it drags its spiral shell, its adopted history,
    sideways, scrabbling across the wet sand.

    That's where you see them,
    when the tide is out, on the flats.

    At high tide, the weight of the shell
    is lessened by the upward pressure of water,

    so he can forage for plankton, algae,
    sea morsels on the ocean floor.

    Actually, he neither "chooses," nor "inherits,"
    the mollusk's shell, he has no choice

    but to live in it, to lug it with him
    everywhere until it's his time to move again.

    No shell he inhabits will be his home forever.
    Restless, driven, Darwinian,

    where he lives today might not please
    or fit him tomorrow. I could tell you more,

    the flats are seething with unlikely creatures
    and remnants of life where life's been unfastened.

    According to Tarot, the hermit has internalized
    life's lesson to the point where he is the lesson.

    And you, Gail, though you seem almost frozen,
    are you sure you won't abandon

    the crowded, calcified armor of your story,
    of what was given, what freely chosen—


    POEM

    They said the mind is an ocean,
    but sometimes my mind is a pond
    circular, shady,

    obscure and surrounding the pond,
    scrub oak, poison ivy, inedible
    low hanging berries,

    and twined with the berries, catbrier;
    pond where I once swam to a raft
    and climbed on, sun drying,

    warming my young skin, boys—
    that century.
    They said the mind or they said something else—

    another metaphor: metaphor,
    the very liquid glue that helped the worlds—
    tangible, solid and, oh, metaphysical—make sense;

    and now, fearsome beings in the thick dark water,
    but what?—snapping turtles, leeches,
    creatures that sting ...

    Who were they to say such a thing?
    —Or do I have that wrong?
    The mind an ocean glorious infinite salty

    teeming with syllables,
    their tendrils filtered by greeny light?
    They don't always get it right, do they?

    No, it is an unenchanting thing,
    the mind: unmusical, small
    a dangerous hole, and stagnant,

    murk and leaf-muck at the bottom,
    mind an idea of idea-making,
    idea of place, place to swim home to—

    No, to swim away from, to drown, no, to float—


    THE AGE

    For what seemed an infinite time there were nights
    that were too long. We knew a little science, not enough,

    some cosmology. We'd heard of dark matter, we'd been assured
    although it's everywhere, it doesn't collide, it will never slam

    into our planet, it somehow obeys a gentler law of gravity,
    its particles move through each other. We'd begun to understand

    it shouldn't frighten us that we were the universe's debris,
    or that when we look up at the stars, we're really looking back.

    It was hard to like what we knew. We wanted to live
    in the present, but it was dark. Ignorance

    was one of our consolations. The universe was expanding
    at an accelerating rate, we'd been told we were not at its center,

    that it had no center. And how look forward with hope,
    if not by looking up? I told the others we ought to study

    history again, history teaches us more than erasures,
    more than diminutions, there'd be something for us there.

    I also dared to say we could begin to work at things again,
    to make things, that I thought the hours of light would lengthen,

    that nature still works that way. We would have a future.
    Up to then we'd been observing anniversaries only

    of mistakes and catastrophes, the darkness seemed to
    blanket, to contain our terrible shame. I don't know

    if anyone listened to me, it doesn't matter. Gradually,
    afternoons began seeping back. As I'd promised, the children

    could walk home from school in the freshening light,
    they seemed more playful, singing nonsensical songs

    so marvelous catbirds wanted to mimic them. Why say anything,
    why tell them the endless nights would return? Listen to them,

    the name of a new leader they trust on their lips, O O O they chant,
    and I hear like one struggling to wake from a mournful dream.


    THE ISLAND

    Was I the last one waiting? Epochs passed,
    tides tossed the island twice each day, sometimes

    a lazy shushing, sometimes violent—then
    tides would frighten me, count-down clocks striking

    off the muzzy days and nights. Mosses grew
    around me—pin cushion, pale shield, old man's

    beard. One gray day, walking on the sand,
    I found a wooden shoe last, size 4, stamped

    1903, the cobbler who'd worked with it
    long gone—yet why only now had it washed

    ashore? And one night, I saw six peonies
    tossed on the rocks—Sarah Bernhardts, I thought—

    fringed yellow hearts, their palest pink petals
    tinged vermilion, strewn, shipwrecked children,

    lonely drowned bodies white in the moon's glow.
    Where does anything come from?

    I picked my way over granite to gather them,
    then brought them back to the damp old cabin

    where their frail heads drooped from a Chinese vase,
    nodding feelingly at the dead child's shoe.

    Then, a little interlude of pure joy, amnesiac,
    so human—then hail, rain, wind, the flailing trees.


    TO THE MAKERS

    You were like famous cities with rivers and traffic,
    with architecture from ingenious eras,

    with protest marches and festivals, museums and pharmacies
    and criminal pleasures—

    all the essentials needed to endure. Reading you,
    I re-visit your structures of grids and avenues, your alleys,

    I follow overgrown paths,
    I re-visit the terror and joy of being lost,

    the ways to court discomfort, to dare chaos,
    the knowledge of drowning in a pitch-dark harbor.

    Tyranny and wars advanced in your histories,
    also infirmities of soul and body

    were your portion, yet you were not yearning only,
    not heartbreak only,

    you were not the loneliest people alive.
    There was your work, and then, you had one another,

    you spoke with gods and heroes,
    you cherished your conversations in many languages.

    It is true, you were secretive, observers—spies—
    but that was as it has to be,

    it was only your work you were given to serve.
    You weren't mere investigators of useless things,

    the pragmatic seemed no more or less
    suggestive to you than articles of turbulence

    or rapture—strands of hair in a basin,
    light in a dusty stairwell

    a pitcher of sangria, woe and laughter,
    the feel in the hand of a broken thing.

    Day by day, your lives were a tumult of beginnings.
    When you began, you couldn't know—

    this you keep showing me—
    where your constructions would lead,

    what you made you made from the inchoate,
    muscled and shaped not toward the monumental

    but toward a form of truth that would matter,
    the inaccessible become necessary.

    Though I am speaking to you, I'm not alone

    nurtured by your art,
    even today you animate the minutiae

    of the vast, unsigned cosmos,
    and though the twentieth century ended without you,

    now, decades after your precipitate departures,
    your pages are still touched by many,

    still touch many,
    and the lit screens you never used sing your lines.


    SHIPWRECK
    —Winter, Wellfleet, 2008

    Sweet carcass of an ark, the past's oaken belly—
    what the sands had buried a storm uncovered
    high on Newcomb Hollow beach; a hull,

    round wooden pegs, tool marks that tell
    its serious age, ribs like the bony cage
    of a Great White whale, washed up

    on the shoals a decade after the Civil War, a schooner,
    archaeologists say, converted to a barge—
    they think she carried coal up the Atlantic coast

    from an impoverished post-War South,
    coal that washed ashore on the outer Cape
    to the hardscrabble townspeople's shivering relief.

    In a few weeks, they're sure the tides will resettle her,
    she'll be washed back out to sea or she'll merge again,
    fill with the coarse sands shifting beneath your feet.

    Homely, heavy, sea-scoured, why should she seem
    a venerable thing, spiritual, why should you long
    to touch her, to stretch out under the March sun

    in the long smooth silvery frame of a cradle
    or curl like an orphaned animal on the hand-cut planks
    and caress the marks, the trunnels, with your mittened paws?

    Is it that she hints much yet tells little of the souls lost
    with her, the mystery of survival, the depths she's traveled?
    Has she heard the music on the ocean floor, instrumentation

    of Mantis Shrimp, the bong bong of Humming Fish?
    Why does the day, all blues and greys, feel transcendental?
    She's a remnant, a being almost completely effaced, yet to you

    still resonant—can anything this gone be consecrated? Experts
    have examined the braille of her hull, weighed the evidence
    and they declare, It's another secret the ocean burped up,

    nothing but a blip, a brief reappearance, once rowdy,
    rough with purpose, now not even a container, holding
    nothing, revealing nothing.... But aren't you also a singular secret

    Nature burped up, hurled flailing into the air from the start,
    hungry for light, holding onto whatever buoys you,
    alive, kicking, even when you know you're going down?


    WHILE YOU WERE OUT

    The schooner Hindu dropped its sails, the bay was calm.
    An unflappable egret posed alone on your studio rail.

    The telephone rang. If this were a pink slip torn
    from a memo pad, I couldn't say who'd called, or when

    or why we'd fought so bitterly last night. Two small boys
    called out, high chords of hilarity, tossing dead horseshoe crabs

    as far as they could, not far at all. Mailer traipsed along the flats
    in his yellow bikini, his gray curls wild, pugnacious masculine

    overhang of belly, his arthritic little bulldog panting to keep up,
    a slender girl beside him jotting nattered oddments of his prose.

    For a minute, our era's brute injustices felt almost settled,
    its perpetual wars the memoir of a battle-scarred contrarian

    enlightening his disciple. I wanted to be sun-drunk, asleep to everything.
    Where had you gone? A slow August day and you were out,

    and this is my memo to you. I walked on the wet sand
    as the incoming tide insinuated contradictions,

    I collected beach glass, not questioning the pleasure
    I took combing for sand-washed fragments metamorphosed

    from bottles sailors tossed long ago into a suffering sea.
    Purposeless day, reading random pages of old books—astronomy,

    elegies, a Venetian mystery, greedy for good information. Greedy,
    I went to the garden and clipped pink blooms from my Butterfly Bush

    and deep crimson blooms from the Love Lies Bleeding. The perfume
    of our one life permeated the rooms, contrition's delicate bouquet.

    All along the shore, in wooden houses vulnerable as ours
    to fire and wind and time, others may have been fuming

    or weeping, too, their human despairs let loose on one another,
    little microcosmic wars, everyone standing in the breach.

    Tonight, Mars will be nearer the moon than it's been in 60,000 years,
    and though the radio claims it's bright red to the naked eye,

    all week we've raked the night skies and only seen something flashier
    and slightly pinker than all the blushing stars we can't identify:

    timeless celestial chart, imperishable astral chart that terrifies.
    Why quarrel now? Why tap deadly cracks in our little eggshell house?


    LATE SEPTEMBER

    Now, from the sweet fragrance of roses,
    bitterness stings our nostrils. The bay's
    withdrawn from us, the beach is littered
    with broken things—splintered oars, bits
    of old clay pipe from a long ago shipwreck,
    fragments of china plates. Enchanting, those days
    my townspeople scavenged rare cargo,
    furnishing their long winters with random wares.

    Now, the wind from two directions turns
    soft dubious summer to a hard estate. Now,
    when we know death is near, we walk
    with more courage, but slowly, alongside
    cavorting dogs. And soon he and I will wade
    together into the cold homecoming wave.

    after Sereni


    OCTOBER

    Days of Awe.
    Month of our parents' deaths.

    Reddening dogwood and sugar maple,
    deep dark dramatic red of sumac
    along a Cape road, and in the city,
    jackets donned, then at mid-day, shed.

    Nature's refrain, the return of losses,
    piercing glory of the leaves' palette
    before the tossing windy rains,
    slop and decay, the burial under snow.

    And yet, a new year, new breath:

    repetition of stories that once wounded
    or bewildered and now delight—
    actual stories, after all
    this time: Funny. Sad. Slight.

    Memories, misquotes.
    Days of reflection, of reconciliation.

    Their faults now only foibles
    and all the meannesses and pathos,
    hoarding and generosities,
    the stoniness and warmth,

    part of their allure,
    part of the layered shapeliness.
    Enduring, granitic characters
    at last achieved.

    With acceptance of them,
    some also perhaps of yourself.
    It is not your job to finish the task,
    but neither are you free to abandon it.



    NOTES IN CHALK ON A RUINED BRIDGE

    When I first read the phrase man's inhumanity
    to man in the other world I found it elegant
    but inadequate though I was moved by it

    In the beginning the five of us were angry
    then frightened—those sooty days still
    days of hope and imagination

    Hope and imagination
    each one necessary to the other
    that is what I thought

    Then we had a sheepish sense someone would come
    to feed us to organize our group
    to herd us to a city with parks and fountains

    For a time I would repeat my favorite words
    and my mother's choice unprintable ones
    and my uncle's forbidden ones

    my children's exuberant babble of wonder
    none of the others shared my interest
    but I would recite alphabetically for instance

    my favorite adjectives all the birds
    I could name authors from seven continents
    for Antarctica I invented the author Per Mission

    just to live in my mind in the gone world

    Still most mornings
    or what I estimated inside our noxious cloud
      was morning

    we'd wait together we were very hungry
    small starving animals voles and mice with round ears
    feared us as we feared them

    because we'd lost confidence in ourselves
    and shared no vocabulary to discuss
    what we'd been severed from or where we were

    I lost one then two then more Latinate
    or Indian-rooted words I remember liking
    and slowly the names of invisible constellations

    If there'd been wind they'd have been words
    in the wind after some time the acidic air
    ate them all then I spoke no more

    because there was no one left no one to listen
    no one but me to care and I don't know if I care
    every stone here at the bridge is coated

    with the salt of my people's unshed tears
    what is caring anyway but clinging to hope
    which also clung to me so under the broken stones

    I could find this package of white chalk
    each cylinder perfect whole and my dream
    became not that we'd talk again

    but that you would arrive and you would know
    how to read my dead mongrel language
    and you would read it my message before

    the great rain erased it
    before the trestle disintegrated
    after I was no longer hungry or waiting—


    FIGURES IN A LANDSCAPE

    We were two figures in a landscape,
    in the middle distance, in summer.

    In the foreground, twisty olive trees,
    a mild wind made the little dry leaves tremble.

    Then, of course, the horizon,
    the radiant blue sky.

    (The maker was hungry for light,
    light silvered the leaves, a stream.)

    I liked to think, for your sake,
    the scene was Italian, 17th century....

    Viewed from here, we resembled one another
    though in truth we were unalike—

    and we were tiny, he'd kept us small
    so the painting would be landscape, not anecdote.

    We were made things, deftly assembled
    but beginning to show wear&mdash

    you, muscular, sculptural,
    and I was I, we were different, we had a story.

    On good days we found comedy in that,
    pratfalls and also great sadness.

    Sun moved across the sky and lowered
    until you, then I, were in shadow, bereft.

    The Renaissance had ended—
    we'd long known we were mortal.

    In shadow, I held the wild daisies and cosmos
    we'd been gathering for the table.

    Then the sky behind us pinked and enflamed
    the landscape where we were left

    to our own reinvention, two silhouettes
    who still had places they meant to travel,

    who were not abstractions—had you pricked them
    they'd have bled, alizarin crimson.

    I wanted to walk by myself awhile
    but I'd always been afraid to lose you

    and the naked olive groves were hovering
    as if to surround you.

    That was the problem:
    I craved loneliness; I needed the warmth of love.

    If no one looks at us, do we or don't we disappear?
    The landscape would survive without us.

    When you're in it, it's not landscape
    any more than the horizon's a line you can stand on.

    March 2009

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Figures in a Landscape by GAIL MAZUR Copyright © 2011 by The University of Chicago. Excerpted by permission of THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Meet the Author

Gail Mazur is the author of five books of poetry, including, most recently, Zeppo’s First Wife: New and Selected Poems, and They Can’t Take That Away from Me, a finalist for the National Book Award, both published by the University of Chicago Press. She is founder and director of the Blacksmith House Poetry Center in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and teaches in Emerson College's Graduate Program in Writing, Literature and Publishing. She has won fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Bunting Institute of Radcliffe College.

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