Poetry
Family Cinema 2
by Robert Lietz
And who was talking sensitive —
promised to love —
promised in common wine
/ in all the new
materials?
This scenery ( we think ) — 1930,
'31 — and cottage
meals for weeks.
And here — in graduating green —
in woods unlike our own
as any in the century.
And here — in succeeding clips —
by this rampway
/ this wood-walled sandbag
insulated ice-house —
sweating
the tong-loads in — paying
their sweat like this
to keep their trophies fresh
for seasons.
We're seeing with their eyes now —
these filmed lives
lingering — no less
surprised / less
sensitive —
and thinking how faces aged —
how these women —
making their good sense
of recreation —
aged
in the known world then —
no less than we
in love — in these fabrics
made to move
by the wind's
study.
*
Then this woman's fingers —
then these buttons
/ pins of gold and bakelite —
this radio
we think has just appeared
behind her shoulder —
move a man
in love
and left in love to figuring —
amused — as
the explanations seem — and
as the blonde horse
seems — statue-straight
in rain — these
Germans on horseback
seem — riding
Depression
Paths
through glinting hardwoods
to back acres —
where we are Sunday marveling —
are reaching deeply
through these lives — your
mother as yet
fourteen — watching the archers
taking turns — following
the arrows slicing
woodscents
and fall greens — men
dead for years —
and dead even for decades —
finding the bull's eye
still — pulling their arrows
free — brightening
the "Swedes"
with their good
laughter and
surprises.
*
I'm seeing with their eyes now —
but twice a visitor.
I'm searching these passwords still —
finding the gold
love finds
in homecoming and clear mornings —
and waking beside you here —
Liz / Elizabeth —
enjoying the seamless light —
the common plate
of family —
and this light through woods —
this heron lingering —
perched as he'll be
on deadwood
overlooking
water —
ignoring these bodies tensing straight —
this sequence
of rhythms / scenes —
counting down
a century — placing
these horses
on the spare-edged tote-rode
building autumns —
these arms like our own —
made glad
in brushing over bodies —
sharing the seamless
light
/ and all its
asking
in.