Donald Justice

Here you will find the Poem Nostalgia And Complaint Of The Grandparents of poet Donald Justice

Nostalgia And Complaint Of The Grandparents

Les morts 
C?est sous terre; 
Ça n?en sort 

Our diaries squatted, toad-like, 
On dark closet ledges. 
Forget-me-not and thistle 
Decalcomaned the pages. 
But where, where are they now, 
All the sad squalors 
Of those between-wars parlors?? 
Cut flowers; and the sunlight spilt like soda 
On torporous rugs; the photo 
Albums all outspread ... 
The dead 
Don?t get around much anymore. 

There was an hour when daughters 
Practiced arpeggios; 
Their mothers, awkward and proud, 
Would listen, smoothing their hose? 
Sundays, half-past five! 
Do you recall 
How the sun used to loll, 
Lazily, just beyond the roof, 
Bloodshot and aloof? 
We thought it would never set. 
The dead don?t get 
Around much anymore. 

Eternity resembles 
One long Sunday afternoon. 
No traffic passes; the cigar smoke 
Curls in a blue cocoon. 
Children, have you nothing 
For our cold sakes? 
No tea? No little tea cakes? 
Sometimes now the rains disturb 
Even our remote suburb. 
There?s a dampness underground. 
The dead don?t get around 
Much anymore.