At the moment we know little about Agnes Wathall Tatera beyond the fact that she
published a small book of poems, A Trick of Light, under what we presume
to be her maiden name, Agnes Wathall. From the book's Acknowledgements page, we
have culled the names of a number of journals and sundry publications that
published her work: among them The Lyric, Orphic Lute, Orbis, Modern Haiku,
Bonsai, Quickenings, Prophetic Voices, Hobby Horse, and The Chicago
Tribune. Simply from the titles of these publications, we may infer a poet
with a wide range of interests and talents : lyricism, musicality, "things
oriental," quickenings, prophecies, hobbies. Of course, one can go overboard
speculating, so let's proceed to the reading! (Our sincere thanks to Tom Merrill for
bringing this fine poet to our attention.)
No ancient mariner I,
Hawker of public crosses,
Snaring the passersby
With my necklace of albatrosses.
I blink no glittering eye
Between tufts of gray sea mosses
Nor in the high road ply
My trade of guilts and glosses.
But a dark and inward sky
Tracks the flotsam of my losses.
No more becalmed to lie,
The skeleton ship tosses.
The Lorelei Reformed
Don't set your will to cross the stream, my love,
when I stand opposite and waiting.
The thinning, thicking mists swirl from my eyes.
My lips are traitor to my words, and baiting.
Our hands seem close enough to touch, my love,
but waves ride treacherous in the narrows
and if you trick a path from rock to rock
you'll find them mossy stepping-stones to sorrows.
So kiss me only with your eyes, my love--
then turn your back on love's confusion.
I take no dark delight in drownings, love:
my song is powerless, and my spell illusion.
If love has cast a shadow where we stood,
There lies on Kensington's sun-sifted grass
Under the leaf-tent of an ancient wood
A subtle shade that Sunday strollers pass.
Along the dark Victorian promenade
Of terraced Thames, between the beams of light,
The silent lips of shadow-clung-to-shade
Embrace with words unspoken in the night.
Wraith of a hand trails in the twirling pools
Left by your oars dipped in the Serpentine.
We who were the sad and festive fools
Are moony phantoms keening, "This was mine."
When braver loves these haunted spots have blessed,
Our lingering ghosts may then be laid to rest.
The door chimed and there you stood
young, persistent as the gray rain
beading your gray coat.
Your words slipped by quick and unobtrusive
as a salesman's foot
but the cheery rote
in which you offered me your tracts
did not match the flatness of your eyes.
I asked you in for coffee,
feeling a warmth of sisterhood
for your seeming passionate seeking
of my salvation,
until I perceived, slowly,
you were just making sure of your own.
I know little of conversion
but would expect as moving prime
a fiery love,
and would judge it best
to invoke Grace with grace.
The Magic Glass
Only one, the child I bore
and that one long since not a child
yet my memory
once and for all time bewitched
counts a large family.
As one who stands between
two mirrors, opposite,
sees there an infinite balance of twins,
in rhythmic file, stretching out of sight,
bowing and posturing together,
I see my one, my many children
but in my inner glass
the figures are not uniform.
They are the infant, toddler, tot,
the kindergartner terrified at school,
the chubby young collector
of rosaries and lipsticks,
the vain teen-ager
washing out salon-set hair before the prom,
the bride triumphant--
They do not stay in place
but each one separately
moves in her own way
in both herself