It’s absolutely none of my business, but I am deeply touched by Charles Bernstein’s grief. My daughter is named Emma too. She is everything to me, though I usually forget to make that clear. I will hold her tightly today, and I will tell her how precious she is. I promise.
Please know, Charles, that you are not alone. There is nothing more to say.
Here is a poem for the occasion, written by Theodore Roethke. I hope there is some solace in it.
Elegy for Jane (My student, thrown by a horse)
I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils; And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile; And how, once startled into talk, the light syllables leaped for her, And she balanced in the delight of her thought,
A wren, happy, tail into the wind, Her song trembling the twigs and small branches. The shade sang with her; The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing, And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.
Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth, Even a father could not find her: Scraping her cheek against straw, Stirring the clearest water.
My sparrow, you are not here, Waiting like a fern, making a spiney shadow. The sides of wet stones cannot console me, Nor the moss, wound with the last light.
If only I could nudge you from this sleep, My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon. Over this damp grave I speak the words of my love: I, with no rights in this matter, Neither father nor lover.
It’s absolutely none of my business, but I am deeply touched by Charles Bernstein’s grief. My daughter is named Emma too. She is everything to me, though I usually forget to make that clear. I will hold her tightly today, and I will tell her how precious she is. I promise.
Please know, Charles, that you are not alone. There is nothing more to say.
Here is a poem for the occasion, written by Theodore Roethke. I hope there is some solace in it.
Elegy for Jane
(My student, thrown by a horse)
I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils;
And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;
And how, once startled into talk, the light syllables leaped for her,
And she balanced in the delight of her thought,
A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
Her song trembling the twigs and small branches.
The shade sang with her;
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.
Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,
Even a father could not find her:
Scraping her cheek against straw,
Stirring the clearest water.
My sparrow, you are not here,
Waiting like a fern, making a spiney shadow.
The sides of wet stones cannot console me,
Nor the moss, wound with the last light.
If only I could nudge you from this sleep,
My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.
Over this damp grave I speak the words of my love:
I, with no rights in this matter,
Neither father nor lover.