Turn Out the Light

Turn out the light;
entrust your soul to God
and wait for night's black caravan
to carry you away.
Who knows what sands you will cross?
The road is long, and always new,
between tonight and morning.

February 26 2009

Poetry and Perfection (and Sleep)

Returning to a theme I brought up briefly a couple of weeks ago, it occurs to me that poetic (or any) inspiration is similar to perfection, in that both are commonly the objects of pursuit. It also occurs to me that pursuit is the wrong approach.

Neither poetry nor perfection is impossible, but going after them is commonly fruitless. In my experience, both are things that come and find you, when you are thinking about or doing something else.

Add another item to this list of things that can only be attained by not reaching for them: Sleep.

However, note that refraining from pursuit is like not thinking about the word rhinoceros for ten seconds. Also, it is valid to pursue excellence, which is something short of perfection.

Sleep, poetry, perfection. Do these things have anything else in common? If so, why? What are some effective techniques for refraining from pursuit, without abandoning one's goal entirely? Discuss.

The Speed of Dark

The speed of light is equaled by
the speed of dark.
Every time you throw a switch
or strike a spark
the night flies out
pursued but never caught
by radiance.

And when you douse a flame,
darkness races to reclaim dominion over space,
exploding from the source to chase
the fast retreating, yet still loyal,
bright and royal lances of the light.

February 26 2009

Clues

This branch says
"I grow straight because
I am strong and clean and true, and here
I split apart because
there was in me a need to be
more and more and more
and more."

This lamppost says
"Do you remember in my arching neck
the horses at the battle of Bouvines and all
the smoke and dust and tumult of the flashing swords?
Or is it just
the dancing lower of a nodding bloom
in springtime I evoke?"

Watch the world and wait
for memory's bell to sound and draw
the shade up on resemblance.
Each brick's a road;
each hue a history.
Every turn of line and angle speaks
of other lives and worlds and spare
necessities. So they teach
and so we learn if with a quiet mind
we feel the bridge's red upon our eyes.

December 9 1999

Office Day

A summer poem.

Amazingly,
it rained.
When oh the floods came down and washed
the landscape of the streets into the river, then
oh then it rained
amazingly.

With what buckets did the sky prepare
to drench the weary wars below?
How laughingly did heaven send
its moist and melting messengers
like armies from the high,
to pacify the low?

While in here we,
so dry it seemed a crime to look outside,
kept working, still
we stole a sideways glance
just now and then
to out there where
the war was all but won.

June 30 1998

Rain

This is a sentimental favorite from MANY years ago. It is "translated" from a string of nonsense words that I pretended were in a real language. I can't remember all of the original, but it began, "San/o we/das remmelt yan..." (a little German creeping in there).

Rain
the flowers
in hair made of water.

Love!
As many as the fingers of my hands
has my heart caressed in vain.

Date unknown

The Year of Mending Things

Is this the year of mending things?
First there was the top,
though that was last year, before Christmas;
but remember how proud I was to give it back its voice?
Since then I've fixed a few more things:
some floors, the world in miniature spinning on a stand,
and portions of a mountain;
and also me--at least in part.

And then of course your foot is on the mend;
though I can't claim credit for that, any more than for
recovery from real catastrophe you watched in disbelief--
but look: even there, at least the wreck is gone,
the hole's filled in,
and lasting hurt is bandaged by the quiet snow.

What else can we fix this year?
Our door, of course--
but hearts undone by loss,
shaky souls
(a nation?),
and all our silent fears?
Too much to hope perhaps,
that now so much has broken we have reached a temporary peace,
where glue and love and energy and care
can now repair the damage of a brutal year--
but we can hope; and that, or so it's said,
is where we start.

February 4, 2009