[please see the notes below]
(for P--- S---)
Nulla tuarum audita mihi neque visa sororum—
O quam te memorem, virgo? Namque haud tibi voltus
mortalis, nec vox hominem sonat: O, dea certe—
---Vergil, Aeneid, I
Weekend complacencies and, after noon
by just five minutes, brunch is being served,
still, in the student union. She detests
coffee, but oranges and fresh iced tea
will dissipate the morning's sleepiness.
A little of her dreams flash through her mind:
her minor could bring some catastrophe
to her high G P A. Clad casually---
red hoodie and bell bottomed jeans; barefoot,
she crosses (footsteps' silence) the long rug
that bears the image of a cockatoo.
A corner table offers sunny chairs.
Dominion of the coming week's classwork
(and, during lectures, conversation hushed)
cannot encroach upon this lovely day,
nor dissipate its natural delights.
Author's Notes/Comments:
This is a respectful parody of Billy Collins' poem, "Monday Morning," which he wrote, apparently, about one of his students. In the construction of the poem, he borrowed certain words and phrases from the first stanza of Wallace Stevens' great poem, "Sunday Morning." Since September of 1976, I have wanted to write a poem about a woman at my college; a woman who was considered, by common consent, to be the very epitome of Beauty, to whom no other woman there could compare. Her Beauty (which later photographs indicate she still possesses) was more ethereal than earthly; it was a summation of Beauty rather than just another variation upon it. Therefore, in this series of stanzas, I propose to borrow from Stevens as Collins borrowed; and each stanza of my poem will borrow from the similarly numbered stanza of "Sunday Morning." The two people who provided the most lasting effect, during college, on my life both then and afterward, have been Wallace Stevens, and the superlatively beautiful woman who is the subject of this poem, and to whom the poem is dedicated. I would caution the reader, however: this poem is not her biography. I do not know enough about her to write her biography. This poem is a record of her effect upon my thoughts and senses; it is a record of the responses that she, just walking through a room, could inspire.
