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Poems by Maryann Corbett
On Singing Palestrina To begin, I compress my whole being
into a single point of breath,
dense as the universe at its beginning,
positioned just above the diaphragm, distill it
through the hidden spaces
of my head and throat, threading the pitch
into the shining, shifting net
woven of thirty souls
so threaded, distilled, compressed. If I do this perfectly,
I will disappear. The crow’s feet, the bags under the eyes,
the burned-in memory
of my mother’s bent back,
my father’s demented stare, all
will disappear. The only being in the universe
will be this music
for the space (depending on tempo)
of two minutes and twenty seconds. Rehearsing the Durufle Requiem, late in 2001
Deliver the souls of all the faithful dead
from the pains of hell and the deep pit.
Save them from the lion’s mouth.
Let Hell not swallow them up.
Let them not fall into the dark.
It was the offertory prayer
that burrowed into my brain
and writhed there, not the overwrought Dies Irae of the end time,
but a quieter prayer
for the dead we know now, animas defunctorum,
clearly, the souls of the dead—
but the dead were not the ones before my eyes, and although I sang to God
to save them de poenis inferni,
hellfire was not the matter that turned me cold. It was ne cadant in obscurum
that stopped my breath
like a mouthful of ash, every time, that flashed before me,
over and over,
the images of the living who fell, fleeing the fire and smoke,
the weeping and gnashing of teeth,
stepping off the hundredth floor
into the dark. On the Nature of Things In the aisles of the local Target,
I hunt for Platonic Ideals.
On my list are beauty and order,
perfection and spotlessness.
It’s all here, its chrome
unscratched, its towels folded
in colorful stacks, in rows,
its lighting clean and dramatic.
I could pick up truth and justice,
if I find the right department. I’d like to take it all home—
hard to carry such lack of substance—
so I’ll choose one immaculate Concept
and head for the register, hopeful. Yet I know too well what happens:
Involved in my earthly dwelling,
my sublunary life,
plucked from its heaven and plunged
in the sphere of Time and Change,
it will be damned for my sins,
stained by my fallen nature,
merging at last with the Real,
like the rest of my worldly goods.
Maryann Corbett’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Able Muse, kaleidowhirl, Whistling Shade, Strong Verse, and The William and Mary Review.
Copyright © 2006 by Maryann Corbett. All rights reserved.
This page published July 2006.
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