Four Poems
Samantha Pious
Make it clear
A certain emptiness of mind
is cultivated by gardeners, Buddhist monks,
and editors.
(Yes, editors. Stet and underscore.)
When syntax runs wild
and knotty as weeds and desires,
when rhizomes have overtaken the plot
and chestnuts come tumbling down about your ears,
put on your gloves, roll up your sleeves,
and shear
until the leaves
attain the pattern they were striving for.
Milan
Of all the beautiful people, I recall
you, a model’s model, slender, tall,
seated like a lustrous blond lightning bolt
on one of the benches near the rear entrance
of the Vittorio Emanuele II
your head and shoulders swiveling
craning
on high alert, for (I noticed) when a certain man
of medium stature, cufflinks flashing
like shining armor, smartphone nuzzled against his cheek—
as he strode by, your whole face lit up
with a sickly, simpering smile
and, like a fawn following its mother
out of an open field toward sheltering, shadowy trees,
so that smile slid off your face
and followed his cufflinks riding through the gallery crowds.
Vestals
The virgins in the rose garden
have lost their heads,
arms, toes—
wind, rain, and compulsory Christianity
have blurred their edges, pounded the boundaries out of them
like the billowy white clouds this mid-September sun
has dissipated.
A few of the inscriptions are intact.
The roses are not particularly lovely
and their reflections are barely visible in the stagnant pools
so there is little likelihood of love today
despite the excess heat warning.
Tomorrow, chance of showers, highs
and lows, erosion.
Vieille église de Delft
Dans le vaste calme
des piliers blancs, des voûtes blanches
entre le bruissement des manches noires et des colliers dentellés
une dame en noir bordé au bleu clair des oiseaux
s’occupe de son bébé.
Si les chiens aboient, on les fait taire.
De la chaire la voix mince du prêtre
vacille par le transept
tandis que des centains de chapeaux noirs se hochent
avec toute la sagesse du sommeil.
Old Church, Delft
In the vast quiet
of the white columns, the white vaults
amid the rustling of black sleeves and lacy ruffs
a woman in black and robin’s egg blue
is nursing her baby.
If dogs bark, they are hushed.
From the pulpit the thin voice of the preacher
flickers through the transept
as hundreds of black felt hats
nod sagely with sleep.
Samantha Pious’s translations from the poetry of Renée Vivien are available as A Crown of Violets (Headmistress Press, 2017); her Christine de Pizan translations are forthcoming. She holds a PhD in Comparative Literature from the University of Pennsylvania.