Before I knew you…a silly phrase…
Poetry matters. It’s the keel of our losses and our hope. It allows us to sail.
And silly to write such a thing–midday, late summer clouds coming on. But this is the hour when I was happiest as a child–alone in the woods, light suffused, everything quiet. Somewhere far off the town had a parade. I was in my cave, green, darker than morning. The trees donned sorrow hats as the sun faded. And the birds quiet. Hint of a coming rain.
Queen Anne’s Lace
Standard butter cups
Mantle thoughts of dying
I’m in here…
I know I’m hopelessly local
What else is there
High in branches?
In his excellent memoir “Interesting Times” the Marxist historian Eric Hobsbawm says of the Welsh, circa 1960: “For most of the mountain people the Welsh language was chiefly a Noah’s Ark in which they could survive the flood as a community. They did not so much want to convert and converse: people looked down on visiting South Walians with their ‘school Welsh’. Unlike Noah, they did not expect the flood to end.”
Hydra I took you under my ribs, my darling who licked the words from stones.
Hydra, innocent, my speechlessness.
He supposes he should be more ironic about fealty and Romantic sadness, but finds he cannot.
Electric bulbs hang by threads.
Once my mother lived here—
Year of big ammunition,
WW I her father building bombs
For Uncle Sam—kids
Playing in dynamite
How it was…
Please, for the love of God, go out today and cultivate wonder.
You’d think I’ve a plan
But its not true
In the dark move fast