In the middle of the mess hall at Camp Kern
\nstood a miniature model of Camp Kern<\/p>\n
and in the middle of the model
\nloomed the Camp Kern chapel<\/p>\n
with its tall, slender steeple
\nwhose sharp wooden tip came half an inch<\/p>\n
from poking the top of the Plexiglas box
\nin which the model was encased.<\/p>\n
One night after dinner,
\nI stood beside the model<\/p>\n
and when no one was watching
\npressed hard on the top of the plastic box<\/p>\n
just above the steeple\u2019s tip.
\nThere was a terrible crack.<\/p>\n
I jumped back. Other campers
\nturned away from their trays<\/p>\n
and stared. The mess hall
\ngrew very quiet.<\/p>\n
In the middle of my palm,
\nblood pooled around a small hole.<\/p>\n
Outside, the late sun spiraled over the grass.
\nNot knowing how or why,<\/p>\n
I\u2019d brought down the sky, pierced it,
\nand it hurt.<\/p>\n
I can\u2019t remember which box, of course,
\nnor its title, only that I felt a pair of eyes
\nhad swum up suddenly from my past,
\ntoo fast at first to recognize.<\/p>\n
How dizzy and inexplicably grateful I was,
\ncarried back to childhood terrariums
\nand shoebox dioramas by your
\nblue backgrounds of planets and stars.<\/p>\n
I think perhaps there were three,
\nnear the great door of the museum\u2019s
\nfront gallery. Accidental and blessed,
\neach piece spoke only to me.<\/p>\n
It was a weekday afternoon,
\nthe room grew quiet and empty, only
\na slow rhythm of the guard\u2019s black shoes,
\nguard with one eye lazily<\/p>\n
adrift, and the barely audible
\nclicking of the temperature control.
\nI was nineteen, on the verge of first love.
\nEach box a separate universe, untouchable.<\/p>\n
Manche freilich m\u00fcssen drunten sterben,
\nWo die schweren Ruder der Schiffe streifen,
\nAndre wohnen bei dem Steuer droben,
\nKennen Vogelflug und die L\u00e4nder der Sterne.<\/p>\n
Manche liegen immer mit schweren Gliedern
\nBei den Wurzeln des verworrenen Lebens,
\nAndern sind die St\u00fchle gerichtet
\nBei den Sibyllen, den K\u00f6niginnen,
\nUnd da sitzen sie wie zu Hause,
\nLeichten Hauptes und leichter H\u00e4nde.<\/p>\n
Doch ein Schatten f\u00e4llt von jenen Leben
\nIn die anderen Leben hin\u00fcber,
\nUnd die leichten sind an die schweren
\nWie an Luft und Erde gebunden:<\/p>\n
Ganz vergessener V\u00f6lker M\u00fcdigkeiten
\nKann ich nicht abtun von meinen Lidern,
\nNoch weghalten von der erschrockenen Seele
\nStummes Niederfallen ferner Sterne.<\/p>\n
Viele Geschicke weben neben dem meinen,
\nDurcheinander spielt sie alle das Dasein,
\nUnd mein Teil ist mehr als dieses Lebens
\nSchlanke Flamme oder schmale Leier.<\/p>\n
\u2014by Hugo von Hofmannsthal<\/em><\/p>\n Some, of course, must toil below Some lie always heavy-limbed, But sunrise casts a shadow the weariness of the forgotten Many fates intertwine alongside mine, \u2014Translated from the German<\/em><\/p>\n Noch sp\u00fcr ich ihren Atem auf den Wangen: Dies ist ein Ding, das keiner voll aussinnt, Und da\u00df mein eignes Ich, durch nichts gehemmt, Dann: da\u00df ich auch vor hundert Jahren war So eins mit mir als wie mein eignes Haar.<\/p>\n \u2014by Hugo von Hofmannsthal<\/em><\/p>\n I still feel their breath on my face. It’s something no one fully understands and that my own self, not yet pinned down, A hundred years ago, I too was there, as much a part of me as my own hair.<\/p>\n \u2014Translated from the German<\/em><\/p>\n JASON ROUSH, a 1998 graduate of the Master\u2019s Program in Creative Writing at Boston University, currently teaches writing, literature, and cultural studies at Emerson College. His first book of poems, After Hours<\/em>, is available from Windstorm Creative, and his second collection, Breezeway<\/em>, will be published in 2007. He can be found online at www.jasonroush.com.<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" First Lesson In the middle of the mess hall at Camp Kern stood a miniature model of Camp Kern and in the middle of the model loomed the Camp Kern chapel with its tall, slender steeple whose sharp wooden tip came half an inch from poking the top of the Plexiglas box in which the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":8,"featured_media":0,"parent":71,"menu_order":4,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/82"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/8"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=82"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/82\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":83,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/82\/revisions\/83"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/71"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=82"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}Shadows<\/h2>\n
\nwhere hard oars scrape the ship,
\nwhile others rest above, at the helm,
\nknow flights of birds, continents of stars.<\/p>\n
\ntangled in the roots of fever dreams,
\nwhile others find their seats arranged
\namong sibyls, among queens,
\nand are comfortably at home there,
\ngraceful of head and hand.<\/p>\n
\nacross the lives of the ones below,
\nand light and dark are bound
\nas the air to the earth:<\/p>\n
\nwill not lift from my own eyelids,
\nnor can my soul disregard
\nthe silent falling of faraway stars.<\/p>\n
\nexistence braids them all together,
\nand my part must be more than this
\nthin flame, this slender violin.<\/p>\nTerzinen \u00fcber Verg\u00e4nglichkeit<\/h2>\n
\nWie kann das sein, da\u00df diese nahen Tage
\nFort sind, f\u00fcr immer fort, und ganz vergangen?<\/p>\n
\nUnd viel zu grauenvoll, als da\u00df man klage:
\nDa\u00df alles gleitet und vor\u00fcberrinnt<\/p>\n
\nHer\u00fcberglitt aus einem kleinen Kind
\nMir wie ein Hund unheimlich stumm und fremd.<\/p>\n
\nUnd meine Ahnen, die im Totenhemd,
\nMit mir verwandt sind wie mein eignes Haar,<\/p>\nOn Transience (in Terza Rima)<\/h2>\n
\nThese last few days, why were they meant
\nto fade and forever vanish, traceless?<\/p>\n
\nand far too painful to lament:
\nthat everything slides by us, rushes past,<\/p>\n
\nglided over to me out of a child’s hands
\nlike a stray animal\u2014ignorant, disowned.<\/p>\n
\nand my forebears in their death gowns
\nare close to me as my own hair,<\/p>\n