Linda Bierds
3 poems
On the Somme
ITALICIZED LINE BY WILFRED OWENS
Listen. Is that the enemy rustling just beyond the wires?
Or rabbits, ground birds, a little mud-filled wind, warm
on the blasted meadow? My mother could play, between
her upright thumbs, a different note from every spike
or blade of meadow grass she picked. Sweet hays, vernals,
the greens, blue-greens, the almost-blacks. Cup your hands
to form a cave, she said— Why have I remembered this?—
place your lips against the blade—Is memory the
enemy?—and blow across the gap. My thumbs were small.
The sounds I made were shrill as Skoda shells,
no matter the source, no matter how my breathing shifted.
Back to the field the spent reeds dropped, and whatever
birds I had silenced sang again from the hedgerows.
Cup your hands to form a simple room.
Listen. Is that the— My breath, first cool,
then warm, fills my palms like smoke.
No sound, but deep within the vacancy
I see a hearth, a parlor’s sheen,
some listening shape, eternal near a window.
And each slow dusk, a drawing-down of blinds.
Lessons of the War: Deviant Identity Formations
ITALICIZED LINES BY HENRY REED
You must never be over-sure. You must say, when reporting:
I am a girl, but without the proper balance?
Well that, for an answer, is what we might rightly call—
Evasive? Disguised?—
Moderately satisfactory only, the reason being—
I am in the wrong body but with the right mind?—
Is that two things have been omitted, and those are important.
That my safety catch is always released?
That things only seem to be things.
Yes, I know, and that what will defeat me
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens.
This is the lower sling swivel. And this—
Looks like our swing set’s swivel—
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see.
I remember its sound, just under the crossbar!
I am sure that’s quite clear; and suppose for the sake of example—
That a sling swings my body in every direction—
There may be dead ground in between.
Between each of my upward arcs? My unbalanced feet?
The ever-important question of human balance—
Rests on our sling swivels, doesn’t it? Which only seem to be things—
Is one which need not delay us. Again, you know—
The basics: That a breech is nothing if not open—
That maps are of time, not place, so far as the army—
That what will defeat me grows by accretion, like coral—
Happens to be concerned—the reason being—
That being is all
Is very important. Perhaps you may never get—
That almond branches, like the solitary, hold silent but eloquent gestures—
The knack of judging a distance, but at least you know—
That you showed me the branches, and the bees fumbling the flowers—
The various holds and rolls and throws and breakfalls
With which place, not time, will assault me.
And the various holds and rolls and throws and breakfalls—
Depend on human balance?—
Which in our case we have not got—
Go on. The various holds and rolls . . .
Lie gently together. Which is, perhaps, to say—
The landscape is motionless?—
Perhaps I was never in a strong position—
And the branches reach out without reaching?—
Or the ball of my foot got hurt, or I had some weakness—
With your proper issue?—
Which you may sometimes meet.
I have met fear, and a bit of joy, its bolts easing the Spring.
And how far away, would you say? And do not forget—
How far away the fear? The joy?—
How to report on a landscape: the central sector.
A boot sole away, from dead ground to the ball of my foot.
I have been here before. But somehow then—
The central sector encircles us, doesn’t it?—
I was the tied-up one. How to get out—
Be ready and not over-sure?
The readiness is all. How can I help but feel—
And the being. The being and the readiness are all—
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards—
And the fears and the bolts and
The human beings, now: in what direction are they?
Identity Matrix: Alan Turing, 1952
one said mathematics is the music of reason
and one said the bunting in spring withdraws
increasingly the one singing in chorus isolates itself
nothing music made one winter lifts off immeasurably
figurations of value said one can nest empty-setted
that buntings withdraw increasingly said one is paradox
measure is every silence cancelled gather one dividing
diminishment loss vacancy then soundlessness nothing following one
Linda Bierds’ ninth book of poetry, Roget’s Illusion, was published by Putnam’s in 2014 and longlisted for the 2014 National Book Award. Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including The Atlantic, The New Yorker, The Smithsonian, Poetry, and The Best American Poetry. She teaches creative writing at the University of Washington.