Blue Ridge

By Ellen Bryant Voigt b. 1943
Up there on the mountain road, the fireworks
blistered and subsided, for once at eye level:
spatter of light like water flicked from the fingers;
the brief emergent pattern; and after the afterimage bled   
from the night sky, a delayed and muffled thud   
that must have seemed enormous down below,
the sound concomitant with the arranged
threat of fire above the bleachers.
I stood as tall and straight as possible,
trying to compensate, trying not to lean in my friend’s   
direction. Beside me, correcting height, he slouched   
his shoulders, knees locked, one leg stuck out
to form a defensive angle with the other.
Thus we were most approximate
and most removed.
                         In the long pauses
between explosions, he’d signal conversation   
by nodding vaguely toward the ragged pines.   
I said my children would have loved the show.
He said we were watching youth at a great distance,   
and I thought how the young
are truly boring, unvaried as they are
by the deep scar of doubt, the constant afterimage
of regret—no major tension in their bodies, no tender   
hesitation, they don’t yet know
that this is so much work, scraping
from the self its multiple desires; don’t yet know   
fatigue with self, the hunger for obliteration
that wakes us in the night at the dead hour
and fuels good sex.

                            Of course I didn’t say it.
I realized he watched the fireworks
with the cool attention he had turned on women   
dancing in the bar, a blunt uninvested gaze   
calibrating every moving part, thighs,   
breasts, the muscles of abandon.
I had wanted that gaze on me.
And as the evening dwindled to its nub,
its puddle of tallow, appetite without object,   
as the men peeled off to seek
the least encumbered consolation
and the women grew expansive with regard—
how have I managed so long to stand among the paired   
bodies, the raw pulsing music driving   
loneliness into the air like scent,
and not be seized by longing,
not give anything to be summoned
into the larger soul two souls can make?   
Watching the fireworks with my friend,   
so little ease between us,
I see that I have armed myself;
fire changes everything it touches.

Perhaps he has foreseen this impediment.   
Perhaps when he holds himself within himself,   
a sheathed angular figure at my shoulder,   
he means to be protective less of him
than me, keeping his complicating rage   
inside his body. And what would it solve   
if he took one hand from his pocket,
risking touch, risking invitation—
if he took my hand it would not alter   
this explicit sadness.
                                 The evening stalls,
the fireworks grow boring at this remove.
The traffic prowling the highway at our backs,   
the couples, the families scuffling on the bank   
must think us strangers to each other. Or,
more likely, with the celebrated fireworks thrusting   
their brilliant repeating designs above the ridge,   
we simply blur into the foreground,   
like the fireflies dragging among the trees   
their separate, discontinuous lanterns.

Ellen Bryant Voigt, “Blue Ridge” from The Forces of Plenty (New York: W.W. Norton, 1983). Copyright © 1983 by Ellen Bryant Voigt. Reprinted with the permission of the author.

Source: The Forces of Plenty (1983)

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Poet Ellen Bryant Voigt b. 1943

POET’S REGION U.S., Southern

Subjects Friends & Enemies, Summer, Love, Men & Women, Relationships, Nature, Desire, Realistic & Complicated

Holidays Independence Day

Poetic Terms Blank Verse

 Ellen Bryant Voigt


Ellen Bryant Voigt grew up on her family's farm in rural Virginia. She earned her BA from Converse College and MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Her most recent collections include Headwaters (2013), Messenger: New and Selected Poems 1976-2006, and Shadow of Heaven (2002).

Bryant Voigt studied piano when she was a child, not turning to poetry until a friend in college introduced her to poems by E.E. Cummings and Rilke. She . . .

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SUBJECT Friends & Enemies, Summer, Love, Men & Women, Relationships, Nature, Desire, Realistic & Complicated

POET’S REGION U.S., Southern

Poetic Terms Blank Verse

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Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

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