Poem of the Day: ‘Here’

You may know some poems by Rhina Espaillat. Born on January 20, 1932, she had her 90th birthday this year celebrated by several of the better poetry publications. Back in its 1990s heyday, Prairie Home Companion featured her work. The godmother of the New Formalism — the counter-current that emerged mostly in the 1990s to offer alternatives to the endless free verse of modern college-writing-program poetry — she occupies a section in every contemporary anthology of rhymed and metered verse. The authorized translator of Robert Frost into Spanish, and the translator of such works as the poetry of St. John of the Cross into English, Espaillat is a major poet working in our lifetimes.Of course, if you were a regular reader of The New York Sun, you wouldn’t need to be introduced to her work. The Sun recognized her poetry long before most other publications, booming her 72 years ago with a January 4, 1950, article titled “Teen-age Poet Wins Honors”—a page 23 feature complete with a picture of the young poet and a brief poem called “The Pigeons.” Her rule, she told the Sun, is “to write poetry that’s personal and yet will be understood by every one.”The New York Sun, January 4, 1950. Via New York Public LibraryIf ever there was a poem that fit that definition, it’s her 2017 sonnet “Here,” about what remains after a spouse’s death: “each item’s here. Though, useless as it is, / I don’t know why. Except that it was his.” It’s with this poem that the Sun begins a week of celebrating the work of Rhina Espaillat, something it began doing 72 years ago.Hereby Rhina P. EspaillatEverything’s here, unused, but orderly,as if ready for use: a mint or two;his nail clipper; the little scissors hetrimmed his moustache with; scribbled things to do;his watch; a neatly folded handkerchiefthat spills a scattering of change; the penthat leaked into his pocket now and then.I almost hear him now: Don’t touch! as ifI were pilfering his tangled hearing aids; this snarl of keys; his red Swiss Army knifehiding its tiny arsenal of bladeslike legs tucked under. Glasses, wallet, wife—each item’s here. Though, useless as it is,I don’t know why. Except that it was his.___________________________________With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by Joseph Bottum with the help of the North Carolina poet Sally Thomas, the Sun’s associate poetry editor. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems will be typically drawn from the lesser-known portion of the history of English verse. In the coming months we will be reaching out to contemporary poets for examples of current, primarily formalist work, to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.

Poem of the Day: ‘Here’

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