Road Home

"Hamlet"

I'm not thinking about the play,
but the poem that Pasternak wrote
for Zhivago, that Zhivago

wrote for Lara. Depending on
the translation, the poem begins
in confusion, or applause, or

turbulence, but we know something
has come to an end. We know the
poet is listening to echoes

of the past for some resounding
message from the future--for courage,
or wisdom, maybe even hope.

He stands alone talking to god,
himself, whoever, more or less
like I do now that you've decided

a life with me is not the life
for you. It's like some director
of community theater

had screwed up and scheduled two plays
on the same stage: you and I step
from our separate scripts into

a life not quite of our making,
but something at least our own, where
old words seem new, feeling someone

listened, not knowing where the action
ends. On one point, however, all
variations agree: Pharisees

rule the day--seems we can't avoid
untranslated terms translated
back to us. No matter where, when,

unforgiving order frightens
hungry desire with solitude.
The poem ends with a simple phrase:

"Life is not a walk through a field."
But lately I've strolled far from our
suburbs into wild rich meadows

full of songs of bees. The poppies
will shock you. I will wait awhile
if you should decide to join me.