I always knew I loved the sky,
the way it seems solid and insubstantial at the same time;
the way it disappears above us
even as we pursue it in a climbing plane,
like wishes or answers to certain questions—always out of reach;
the way it embodies blue,
even when it is gray.
But I didn't know I loved the clouds,
those shaggy eyebrows glowering
over the face of the sun.
Perhaps I only love the strange shapes clouds can take,
as if they are sketches by an artist
who keeps changing her mind.
Perhaps I love their deceptive softness,
like a bosom I'd like to rest my head against
but never can.
And I know I love the grass, even as I am cutting it as short
as the hair on my grandson's newly barbered head.
I love the way the smell of grass can fill my nostrils
with intimations of youth and lust;
the way it stains my handkerchief with meanings
that never wash out.
Sometimes I love the rain, staccato on the roof,
and always the snow when I am inside looking out
at the blurring around the edges of parked cars
and trees. And I love trees,
in winter when their austere shapes
are like the cutout silhouettes artists sell at fairs
and in May when their branches
are fuzzy with growth, the leaves poking out
like new green horns on a young deer.
But how about the sound of trains,
those drawn-out whistles of longing in the night,
like coyotes made of steam and steel, no color at all,
reminding me of prisoners on chain gangs I've only seen
in movies, defeated men hammering spikes into rails,
the burly guards watching over them?
Those whistles give loneliness and departure a voice.
It is the kind of loneliness I can take in my arms, tasting
of tears that comfort even as they burn, dampening the pillows
and all the feathers of all the geese who were plucked to fill
them.
Perhaps I embrace the music of departure—song without lyrics,
so I can learn to love it, though I don't love it now.
For at the end of the story, when sky and clouds and grass,
and even you my love of so many years,
have almost disappeared,
it will be all there is left to love.
Showing posts with label exploration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label exploration. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A Man Alone - Stephen Orlen
I hated breaking up and I hated
Being left, finding myself in an apartment
With an extra set of silverware and a ghost,
Impatient to be gone. Then to summon up
Who I was before the bed was full with woman.
To shift the street-mind from getting to
To slowing down and window shop. In the bar down the street,
To let my eyes simplify again, and make no judgments,
And breathe in the smoke that drifts
Through one body then another,
And find myself close enough
To whisper into a woman's just-washed hair
And inhale that ten thousand year old scent.
To memorize a phone number.
To learn to say goodnight at her door.
To keep my hands in my pockets, like a boy.
To open the heart, only a little at a time.
Being left, finding myself in an apartment
With an extra set of silverware and a ghost,
Impatient to be gone. Then to summon up
Who I was before the bed was full with woman.
To shift the street-mind from getting to
To slowing down and window shop. In the bar down the street,
To let my eyes simplify again, and make no judgments,
And breathe in the smoke that drifts
Through one body then another,
And find myself close enough
To whisper into a woman's just-washed hair
And inhale that ten thousand year old scent.
To memorize a phone number.
To learn to say goodnight at her door.
To keep my hands in my pockets, like a boy.
To open the heart, only a little at a time.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Monet Refuses The Operation - Lisel Mueller
Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Ernest Hemingway
"We all ought to make sacrifices for literature. Look at me. I'm going to England without a protest. All for literature."
- Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Acts of Love - Pam Rehm
If endear is earned
and is meant to identify
two halves
then it composes
one meaning
which means
a token
a knot
a note
a noting in the head
of how it feels
to have your heart
be the dear one
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Sea Fever - John Masefield
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Eating Poetry - Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Insufficient Knowledge
You have to start with insufficient knowledge,
yes, this, and yes, praise be, then this,
you have to have that kind of courage.
A breath, a step, a word: it's to your advantage
to begin. There isn't a tune to wait for grace--you
have to start with insufficient knowledge.
Think of a worm's blind rearing at the edge
of a leaf, or a skydiver turning somersaults:
you have to have that kind of courage.
Break your fists, your back, your brain, punch
yourself an opening. This is all there is:
you have to start with insufficient knowledge.
of the heart, that higher organ, which
from time to time catches us be surprise
and we startle with the kind of courage
that will spend it all, not hold back, wage
everything, all, right away, every time, yes.
You have to love with that insufficient knowledge,
you have to have that kind of courage.
yes, this, and yes, praise be, then this,
you have to have that kind of courage.
A breath, a step, a word: it's to your advantage
to begin. There isn't a tune to wait for grace--you
have to start with insufficient knowledge.
Think of a worm's blind rearing at the edge
of a leaf, or a skydiver turning somersaults:
you have to have that kind of courage.
Break your fists, your back, your brain, punch
yourself an opening. This is all there is:
you have to start with insufficient knowledge.
of the heart, that higher organ, which
from time to time catches us be surprise
and we startle with the kind of courage
that will spend it all, not hold back, wage
everything, all, right away, every time, yes.
You have to love with that insufficient knowledge,
you have to have that kind of courage.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
If She Could Have Her Love For You Only One Day A Year - Tina Kelley
If life bloomed once a year, if we sat in dim rooms the rest of the days, resting,
she would come here for that noontime, to see children waist high,
their attentions wandering like wall eyes, making noises that sound to a single person
like severe distress or pain, but mean delight. She would hear a father shouting
"Olivia! Wait for Maggie!" whatever good that does. Sun off the lake
makes bright veins on the underside of a Japanese red pine,
lightens the bark like a buttercup held under it. She would see the limp-legged wasp,
the bumblebee with jodhpurs of pollen, straddling the sweet stigma of the purple hosta.
She would see the shadows of the waterbug's feet, circled by sharp light.
If she could have her love for this garden only one day a year
she would take souvenirs. Everyone does — a snapshot, a sketch, a stone, a sentence,
two nuggets of food for the koi, moist, in the pocket of size 6x shorts. The honeybees
hump their rumps over their work, walking on the globe of a cloverhead.
She sees that the waterbugs move so seldom, is each polished slide an annual event?
She would lie down and read and walk away stronger,
with the memory of the comfort of the sun on the soles of her bare feet.
Bullfrog, dragonfly, buttercup, snow lantern, vine maple, honeybee,
cloverhead, waterbug, moonlight: She wants this by moonlight.
she would come here for that noontime, to see children waist high,
their attentions wandering like wall eyes, making noises that sound to a single person
like severe distress or pain, but mean delight. She would hear a father shouting
"Olivia! Wait for Maggie!" whatever good that does. Sun off the lake
makes bright veins on the underside of a Japanese red pine,
lightens the bark like a buttercup held under it. She would see the limp-legged wasp,
the bumblebee with jodhpurs of pollen, straddling the sweet stigma of the purple hosta.
She would see the shadows of the waterbug's feet, circled by sharp light.
If she could have her love for this garden only one day a year
she would take souvenirs. Everyone does — a snapshot, a sketch, a stone, a sentence,
two nuggets of food for the koi, moist, in the pocket of size 6x shorts. The honeybees
hump their rumps over their work, walking on the globe of a cloverhead.
She sees that the waterbugs move so seldom, is each polished slide an annual event?
She would lie down and read and walk away stronger,
with the memory of the comfort of the sun on the soles of her bare feet.
Bullfrog, dragonfly, buttercup, snow lantern, vine maple, honeybee,
cloverhead, waterbug, moonlight: She wants this by moonlight.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Nicole Krauss
"Even now, all possible feelings do not yet exist, there are still those that lie beyond our capacity and our imagination. From time to time, when a piece of music no one has ever written or a painting no one has ever painted, or something else impossible to predict, fathom or yet describe takes place, a new feeling enters the world. And then, for the millionth time in the history of feeling, the heart surges and absorbs the impact."
-The History of Love
-The History of Love
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
somewhere i have never travelled - e.e. cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Get Fly - Sean Daley (Slug of Atmosphere)
They want us to fight, but we just want to get high
Work all day, all night, trying to get fly
When I get some money I'mma buy me some time
I can't fight your war until I'm finished with mine
I used to be mad at the government
Redirected some of my anger towards the mothership
Trying to guess which living hell sleeps under
when the grand scheme plan keeps all these people wonderin'
Why we still runnin' in place frustrated?
Pride is mistaken for hate, it's upgraded
I got a little breath left, let's suffocate it
Point at the epiphanies and call 'em all drug related
The time I spent with my life on bent
Trying to find the friends inside my head
Must have disengaged every phase and stage
Of of my I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming of age
My unofficial autobio
Will be accompanied with tips on how to smile
'cause I've found that when they don't see you frown
They never know that your a threat
And they don't sweat you when you came around
So who's going to be my next door savior?
Step up to your neighbor, and do me a favor
Take off the mask, let it all collapse
Empty the pack and watch your wings grow back
They want us to fight, but we just want to get high
Work all day, all night, trying to get fly
When I get some money I'mma buy me some time
I can't fight your war until I'm finished with mine
Society becomes jealousy, intimacy becomes intensity
Say it with a smile like it's meant to be
And all of a sudden, "boom", American family
And I can tell when your mad at your past
Because you tend to take the turns just a little too fast
And I can tell how you push your foot on the gas
that you already knew that you was gunna finsish last
Slow it down and take a little time
To look up at them clouds with the fake silver lining
Up in a tree knowing damn well you never reach the top
But you don't stop, you keep climbing
Well okay, it's settled
No more nights in this weed and thorn infested meadow
Uh-uh, from this day forth, only forward I pedal
Get the memo I'm cutting the strings Gepetto
Shuffle the cards and let's argue
Rooted in between the computer games and cartoons
Stop and watch us all get lost
Between God and a shot of scotch, let's get fly
They want us to fight, but we just want to get high
Work all day, all night, trying to get fly
When I get some money I'mma buy me some time
I can't fight your war until I'm finished with mine
Uh huh… gon’ work all day, work all night
Uh huh… won’t fight your war until I’m finished with mine
Uh huh… gonna forward move, gonna buy me some time
Uh huh… I’m cutting your strings and keeping my smile
Work all day, all night, trying to get fly
When I get some money I'mma buy me some time
I can't fight your war until I'm finished with mine
I used to be mad at the government
Redirected some of my anger towards the mothership
Trying to guess which living hell sleeps under
when the grand scheme plan keeps all these people wonderin'
Why we still runnin' in place frustrated?
Pride is mistaken for hate, it's upgraded
I got a little breath left, let's suffocate it
Point at the epiphanies and call 'em all drug related
The time I spent with my life on bent
Trying to find the friends inside my head
Must have disengaged every phase and stage
Of of my I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming of age
My unofficial autobio
Will be accompanied with tips on how to smile
'cause I've found that when they don't see you frown
They never know that your a threat
And they don't sweat you when you came around
So who's going to be my next door savior?
Step up to your neighbor, and do me a favor
Take off the mask, let it all collapse
Empty the pack and watch your wings grow back
They want us to fight, but we just want to get high
Work all day, all night, trying to get fly
When I get some money I'mma buy me some time
I can't fight your war until I'm finished with mine
Society becomes jealousy, intimacy becomes intensity
Say it with a smile like it's meant to be
And all of a sudden, "boom", American family
And I can tell when your mad at your past
Because you tend to take the turns just a little too fast
And I can tell how you push your foot on the gas
that you already knew that you was gunna finsish last
Slow it down and take a little time
To look up at them clouds with the fake silver lining
Up in a tree knowing damn well you never reach the top
But you don't stop, you keep climbing
Well okay, it's settled
No more nights in this weed and thorn infested meadow
Uh-uh, from this day forth, only forward I pedal
Get the memo I'm cutting the strings Gepetto
Shuffle the cards and let's argue
Rooted in between the computer games and cartoons
Stop and watch us all get lost
Between God and a shot of scotch, let's get fly
They want us to fight, but we just want to get high
Work all day, all night, trying to get fly
When I get some money I'mma buy me some time
I can't fight your war until I'm finished with mine
Uh huh… gon’ work all day, work all night
Uh huh… won’t fight your war until I’m finished with mine
Uh huh… gonna forward move, gonna buy me some time
Uh huh… I’m cutting your strings and keeping my smile
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Seafarer - Archibald MacLeish
And learn O voyager to walk
The roll of earth, the pitch and fall
That swings across these trees those stars:
That swings the sunlight up the wall.
And learn upon these narrow beds
To sleep in spite of sea, in spite
Of sound the rushing planet makes:
And learn to sleep against this ground.
The roll of earth, the pitch and fall
That swings across these trees those stars:
That swings the sunlight up the wall.
And learn upon these narrow beds
To sleep in spite of sea, in spite
Of sound the rushing planet makes:
And learn to sleep against this ground.
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