Last Days - February 20, 2010

...As everything,

forgetting its own enchantment whispers:

I too love oblivion why not its full

of second chances Now,

hiss the bright curls of the leaves. Now!

booms the muscle of the wind.

Currently I am immersed in a study of "last days" by reading fiction and nonfiction concerning apocalyptic myths. I wonder why this myth persists throughout the centuries. Perhaps it is to tell a story of hope, that the end means a beginning, and that we can begin again anew. In the mess of our lives, in the mess we've made of the planet and of human cultures, we so badly want to build something new, but we don't know how. Perhaps there is something hopeful in wiping the slate clean so that we may inscribe gratitude and love upon our cultural constructs.

Where might you have the impulse to get rid of everything so that you could start again?

Three Poems for James Wright - February 5, 2010

1. Hearing of Your Illness

I went out

from the news of your illness

like a broken bone...

...Then I lay down in a rank and spring-sweet field...

...small creatures rustling about, living their lives

as they do, moment by moment.

I felt better, telling them about you.

They know what pain is, and they knew you,...

..They...

merely loved you and waited

to take you back...

...meanwhile not missing one shred of their own

assignments of song

and muscle-

what I learned there, so I

got up finally, with a grief

worthy of you, and went home.

2. Early Morning in Ohio

...I remember

what you said.

And think how somewhere in Tuscany

a small spider might eve now

be stepping forth, testing

the silks of her web, the morning air,

the possibilities; maybe even, who knows,

singing a tiny song.

3. The Rose

...the news came

that nothing

could come to you

in time

anymore

ever.

I put down the phone

and I thought I saw, on the floor of the room, suddenly,

a large box,...

...but what it was-the voice

of a small bird singing inside, Lord,

how it sang, and kept singing!

how it keeps singing!

in its deep

and miraculous

composure

There is a song behind death and grief, which seems we can only hear if we know the sorrow of our hearts as they beat with the rhythm of the world. All things singing, all things shining. I am hear to listen, to sing, and to be the mirror that reflects back all things shining. So clear is this note of life's passionate melody for me after reading this poem. Thank you Mary.

Do you hear a song behind your pain and grief?