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Articles by Constance Urdang
American poet Constance Urdang
The Madman By Constance Urdang At first, he wondered why he should be spared; Observed, of all the windows, none was barred, And every door swung open at a word. The garden welcomed him; the angel’s sword Flowered before his eyes like Aaron’s rod; At first he wondered that he should be spared. The beasts had grown so tame they hardly stirred; The wall uncoiled its length without a guard Where every door swung open at a word, And trees bowed low to offer all they had.
Aesthetics of the Asylum
The sober reality Was a double line of orphans in blue smocks Marching above the blue river Under the smoky eye of winter. It is possible to envy them; The picture of which they formed a part Was so well composed, In shades of blue and smoke And the dull brick red of the asylum walls; How orderly and tranquil the effect Of the wintry ranks of children Under the silent sky. Constance Urdang, “Aesthetics of the Asylum” from Only the World. Copyright � 1983.
Reflections on History in Missouri
This old house lodges no ghosts! Those swaggering specters who found their way Across the Atlantic Were left behind With their old European grudges In the farmhouses of New England And Pennsylvania Like so much jettisoned baggage Too heavy To lug over the Piedmont. The flatlands are inhospitable To phantoms.
Why They Turned Back/Why They Went On
Because a black bird flew across the road; Because the attendant at the pump turned surly; Because the uncertain weather Made Mother nervous, And, back home, the telephone kept ringing In an empty house; Because a white bird flew across the road. How far had they come? How far did they go?
The Old Maid Factory
This is the factory Where they manufacture old maids At one end of the assembly line The women are jostled into their places They wonder where they are going What will happen to them One says, “Where is my sister?” But the foreman is not permitted to answer First she will be hollowed out By parts she is not permitted to name Her sister is replaced by a substitute At the end of the assembly line The old maid minces out Into what she calls America She has forgotten she is a woman She has no...
Free Verse 2015: A New York Miscellany
For poets, spring is a time of — complexity. Even when it's perfectly wonderful for everyone else, for the poet it can be a time to discover, like Henry Howard, that sorrow is often worse if you're surrounded by amorously disposed turtledoves and busy honeybees. Sometimes the sweet rain and breeze make everything so fine in Poetryland that little birds become too happy to sleep.
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