Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Letting Go / X3

Alan:  Sometimes the land lies counter to our emotions.  In leaf-fall, joy; in the greening meadow, grief.

Letting Go

This same field
a few springs back
held small pools
in a cold wind
like blue eyes
full of tears.
It sparkles now, white,
or where the sun touches,
green, yellow-green,
yellow, yellow-brown,
The alders
are dropping their leaves,
in the still air,
with a faint chattering
that sounds
like celebration.
Who can discern
why sorrow then,
why happiness now?

Nancy:  Easier asked than answered:  where do these words come from?

X 3

            There was my poem, pinned to the bulletin board
            at Walmart, between the bean supper and the car
            wash, an entirely appropriate juxtaposition
            for many of my poems, focused as they are on
            the weather and/or the scraggly epiphanies
            of survival in a hard place.

Wallace Stevens
            There are nights when I can’t connect with
            malicious greens and gilt umbrellas, nights
            after days when I’ve spent an entire pot of tea
            talking with neighbors about the costs of living
            simply; it’s a relief to turn Wallace Stevens
            face down on the table and step out to pee,
            splintery boards, sharply cold air, an orange
            rind of moon, nothing veiled.

Examining Room
            Weeks from now, when I’ve forgotten worry and wait
            and hurt, I’ll remember sitting on the clinic’s
            hard chair talking poetry with the nurses’ aide,
            who is shy and who keeps her voice low, but who needs
            reassurance; how can these words have such independent
            wills, she asks, where do these words come from,
            who am I, writing these words?

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