Reading D.H. Lawrence

I too climb in and out of the pit of myself 
And have watched so many others do the same

And as a man have crawled on all fours 
And have told the overseer to fuck off

And have called the wrong things mystic
And have seen the November mushroom

The “Standalone of Fall”—that silly man
Not giving up—but waiting 

In the milk light of the underworld
Which is wholly inside him

So that now after rain, early winter, 
Hop-scotching birds, 

Avian imperfect, the wild ordinary
Welter of earth, small gasps,

I walk up the pale green avenue—
7th avenue in New York—

End of day, my great guide dog 
Working to keep us safe, 

Taking us toward 
The postulate of arrival, 

The grandest of things, 
A task accomplished, 

Going where we had to go
Mystic one calls it

Whether right or wrong.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto