South Fork Poetry: ‘Celebration’

By Grace Schulman

Seeing, in April, hostas unfurl like arias,
and tulips, white cups inscribed with licks of flame,
gaze feverish, grown almost to my waist,
and the oaks raise new leaves for benediction,
I mourn for what does not come back: the movie theater —
reels spinning out vampire bats, last trains,
the arc of Chaplin’s cane, the hidden doorways —
struck down for a fast-food store; your rangy stride;
my shawl of hair; my mother’s grand piano.
My mother.

     How to make it new,
how to find the gain in it? Ask the sea
at sunrise how a million sparks
can fly over dead bones.


From Grace Schulman’s 2013 collection, “Without a Claim.” Ms. Schulman, who lives part time in Springs, will be awarded the Poetry Society of America’s Frost Medal for lifetime achievement on Wednesday at 7 p.m. at the National Arts Club in Manhattan.