November 28: Another Poem of Thanks, Sharon Olds, "First Thanksgiving"

I found a Thanksgiving poem by one of my favorite poets--Sharon Olds.  It's a poem I may have read before, but I just don't remember ever having read it.  It's beautiful, but, again, tinged with sadness and nostalgia.  I can't get away from it.

That's OK, though.  I am naturally of a serious mind.  Don't get me wrong.  I have a sense of humor, but the poetry to which I'm usually drawn is laced with a strong thread of pain/darkness.

Saint Marty promises to try to be happier tomorrow.

First Thanksgiving

by:  Sharon Olds

When she comes back, from college, I will see

the skin of her upper arms, cool,

matte, glossy. She will hug me, my old

soupy chest against her breasts,

I will smell her hair! She will sleep in this apartment,

her sleep like an untamed, good object,

like a soul in a body. She came into my life the

second great arrival, after him, fresh

from the other world—which lay, from within him,

within me. Those nights, I fed her to sleep,

week after week, the moon rising,

and setting, and waxing—whirling, over the months,

in a slow blur, around our planet.

Now she doesn’t need love like that, she has

had it. She will walk in glowing, we will talk,

and then, when she’s fast asleep, I’ll exult

to have her in that room again,

behind that door! As a child, I caught

bees, by the wings, and held them, some seconds,

looked into their wild faces,

listened to them sing, then tossed them back

into the air—I remember the moment the

arc of my toss swerved, and they entered

the corrected curve of their departure.

A different first Thanksgiving