We had a visitor in the garden this afternoon.
2.8.15
20.3.11
The Hunter
The gun’s retort bring Jones to the window
To peer across his field with clouded eyes.
He sees a truck parked beside the road
He sees a splash of red, nothing more,
But enough to tell him the man who built
The house down the road in what was once
Jones’ hay field is hunting.
A shot rings out. “Hunting,” Jones exclaims.
He spits the word out like a gob of phlegm,
Cursing the noise that brought him from his chair
Beside the parlor stove that’s barely warm
To the window that is less than warm.
Yet another shot comes from the woods,
Answered by the “crack!” from the pine
That burns in the parlor stove behind him
Jones jumps, and then a tight-lipped smile
Creases the pale and gray-stubbled face.
“Good hunting,” Jones says aloud
In a shaky voice that sounds to him
Like an old lady’s. “Good hunting,”
He croaks the benediction once again
And shuffles back across the creaking floor
And sinks into the chair beside the stove.
In the cold and stealthy November dusk
Jones curses, then curses once again
The pain in his bones that makes him slow,
The age that forces him to sit alone
While someone else hunts in his woods.
Hosanna
I heard on the radio yesterday
That the Tasmanian Devil
(Not the whirling dervish on TV
But the actual animal from Tasmania)
Is being wiped out by a blood-born virus
That causes cancer.
One of the symptoms of the disease
Is horrible, disfiguring facial lesions.
Within five months the animal is dead.
Hosanna in the highest.
I heard at a lecture last month
That the bat population of the Northeast
Is being wiped out by a mysterious disease
That is being called white nose
Because of the white patches that develop
On the animal’s nose.
In a manner that is not yet understood
The bats are wakened from hibernation
And fly out of their caves looking for food.
But in midwinter there are no mosquitoes.
We were shown video of bats flapping weakly
As they lay on the snow, starving.
Hosanna in the highest.
I read in the paper that in Darfur
Up to 400,000 people have died since February 2003.
More than 2.5 million people have been driven from their homes
More than 200,000 have fled to refugee camps in neighboring Chad
As many as 1 million civilians could die in Darfur
From lack of food and from disease within coming months.
Eighty percent of the children under five years old
Are suffering from severe malnutrition.
Many children are dying each day.
Humanitarian aid organizations have access
To only twenty percent of those affected.
Hosanna in the highest.
16.9.10
Mt. Guyot, September 8, 2010
Cloud-swept mountain peak.
Wind blows both cairn and hiker,
Bringing clarity.
Wind blows both cairn and hiker,
Bringing clarity.
3.10.09
The Transcendentalist Holds Discourse With the Heavens
The Transcendentalist lies on his back outside the mountain hut.
The dark summit of the mountain looms beyond in the darkness.
The dark summit of the mountain looms beyond in the darkness.
He feels the hard wood of the porch under his back.
The mountain wind soughs and rushes over his body,
Cool and damp.
His companions sit on the wooden benches and listen as their leader
Explains the anatomy of weather, atmosphere and mountains –
The reason for the perpetual cold and damp that grips the hut
And for the bent spruce and hissing grasses
That surround it.
The Transcendentalist lies with his hands crossed behind his head,
Half listening to the voices of his fellow travelers
And half to the wind that flows from the silent peak,
A cold, fast river that makes a rushing sound
In his ears.
As he lies there, the clouds shift without warning
And the ineffable heavens are displayed,
A scarf thrown across the sky by an unseen hand,
Woven with shimmering strands of heaven-sik
And bright, glittering jewels.
A falling star darts across the sky and is extinguished soundlessly,
The mountain wind soughs and rushes over his body,
Cool and damp.
His companions sit on the wooden benches and listen as their leader
Explains the anatomy of weather, atmosphere and mountains –
The reason for the perpetual cold and damp that grips the hut
And for the bent spruce and hissing grasses
That surround it.
The Transcendentalist lies with his hands crossed behind his head,
Half listening to the voices of his fellow travelers
And half to the wind that flows from the silent peak,
A cold, fast river that makes a rushing sound
In his ears.
As he lies there, the clouds shift without warning
And the ineffable heavens are displayed,
A scarf thrown across the sky by an unseen hand,
Woven with shimmering strands of heaven-sik
And bright, glittering jewels.
A falling star darts across the sky and is extinguished soundlessly,
Another, then another appear and are gone.
The Transcendentalist gazes into the Milky Way, into the depths
The Transcendentalist gazes into the Milky Way, into the depths
Of a Universe that has no beginning
And no end.
Then the platform upon which he lies seems to rise.
It floats higher, taking him closer and closer to the stars
That continue to shine steadfastly above the heedless earth,
The earth that has chosen to turn in on itself,
Unattached, unaware.
The Transcendentalist, aware, floats among the stars.
(Or does he? Does he remain on the rough wood of the porch
Hands laced behind his head, looking up and losing himself,
Dreamer that he is, imagining that he can touch that which
None have touched?)
Whatever the case, he is wrapt, enthralled by the incandescence.
And he forgets the hut and mountain below him.
He forgets even the rough wood that chafes his back.
He forgets his clothes, his stiff boots, his body.
Then the platform upon which he lies seems to rise.
It floats higher, taking him closer and closer to the stars
That continue to shine steadfastly above the heedless earth,
The earth that has chosen to turn in on itself,
Unattached, unaware.
The Transcendentalist, aware, floats among the stars.
(Or does he? Does he remain on the rough wood of the porch
Hands laced behind his head, looking up and losing himself,
Dreamer that he is, imagining that he can touch that which
None have touched?)
Whatever the case, he is wrapt, enthralled by the incandescence.
And he forgets the hut and mountain below him.
He forgets even the rough wood that chafes his back.
He forgets his clothes, his stiff boots, his body.
He is pure thought.
Incorporeal, existing as mind alone, glimmering in the sky
He bends his energy and apostrophizes the whirling orbs.
Then he turns mute as the ancient lights slowly divulge
The small part of their vast astral wisdom they have
Incorporeal, existing as mind alone, glimmering in the sky
He bends his energy and apostrophizes the whirling orbs.
Then he turns mute as the ancient lights slowly divulge
The small part of their vast astral wisdom they have
Chosen to reveal.
29.4.09
Into the Woods
I took our dog into the woods this evening.
Though the day had been unseasonably warm, the woods were cool
And (thank the powers that be) free of the blood-thirsty insects
That plague these parts every April and May.
The dog was overcome; the smells, the sounds and
Sights of the woods in the slanting light
Of the sun that moved slowly toward the hills
Were a transcendent Border Collie experience.
She sniffed every stump, leapt over every fallen tree,
And waded through every brook, lapping the water blissfully.
We walked until daylight began to fade.
We heard the first hermit thrush, who warbled
His unearthly song from a hemlock grove
Like the bird the Vermont poet wrote about.
From the meadow came the odd call of the "dunk-a-doo,"
The American Bittern, who performs his pump handle call,
Then stands perfectly still in the tall grasses,
Tips his head back and his points his beak to the sky
And thus becomes invisible.
But loudest of all, the spring peepers, hyla crucifer,
Rang their tintinnabulations of joy
As if this were the very first spring;
As if it were the very first time life burst
The icy bonds of winter and, finding itself alive,
Rejoiced that such a thing could exist
In the blue waters and the cool air
Of a late April evening.
Though the day had been unseasonably warm, the woods were cool
And (thank the powers that be) free of the blood-thirsty insects
That plague these parts every April and May.
The dog was overcome; the smells, the sounds and
Sights of the woods in the slanting light
Of the sun that moved slowly toward the hills
Were a transcendent Border Collie experience.
She sniffed every stump, leapt over every fallen tree,
And waded through every brook, lapping the water blissfully.
We walked until daylight began to fade.
We heard the first hermit thrush, who warbled
His unearthly song from a hemlock grove
Like the bird the Vermont poet wrote about.
From the meadow came the odd call of the "dunk-a-doo,"
The American Bittern, who performs his pump handle call,
Then stands perfectly still in the tall grasses,
Tips his head back and his points his beak to the sky
And thus becomes invisible.
But loudest of all, the spring peepers, hyla crucifer,
Rang their tintinnabulations of joy
As if this were the very first spring;
As if it were the very first time life burst
The icy bonds of winter and, finding itself alive,
Rejoiced that such a thing could exist
In the blue waters and the cool air
Of a late April evening.
21.2.09
In An Antique House
When I quietly rise from bed, unable to sleep,
I know you are there. I see, or perhaps feel
Your face hovering in the gloom of the front hall,
You with your sallow cheeks and large, doleful eyes
Which stare at me, cold and vacant,
As they always stare.
Former resident of this old, crooked house,
You watch me open the creaking doors.
You are puzzled to find that your bony hands
Can not turn the glass door knobs,
Yet your breath moves the lace curtains
We have hung in your windows.
Old husbandman, you slowly shake your head at me
As I grope my way through the dark to the old farm kitchen.
I fear that turning on a light will scare you away.
Your watchful presence is unnerving,
Yet somehow comforting.
We are old friend, ghostly companion. Your gray face
Watches me move about the house
With no expression of comprehension.
I hear you closing cabinet doors in the kitchen
Or pounding on the wall outside the back door.
I think it troubles you to see how your house has become old,
How it sags and leans toward the brook
From which your blond sons once pulled trout.
When I pace the confines of your narrow, antique attic
You stand patiently by the fly-specked window, watching me.
And I have the feeling that there is something you would like to say
If you could but bring forth sound from your dusty throat.
I sense your presence throughout the house.
When I stoop bemused in your cramped. musty cellar,
Wondering how much longer the rusting boiler will last
I know you are there with me, also watching.
In the attic, as I look out at the back yard
Through the fly-specked windows you are there,
You and the other wavering shadows
Who still guard this antique house.
I leave the kitchen and return to your bedroom, sliding quietly
Between the sheets so as not to disturb my wife.
As I lie there, listening to my wife and the soft rise and fall of her sleep
I know you are there, too.
Now I can hear you all, crowded together in the hush
Of the empty dining room. You whisper to each other
With dry, paper-thin voices that are like
The rustling of the leaves on the lilacs outside the window.
You look around, revenant inhabitants of this narrow house;
You stare, amazed by what you see.
Where is the reed organ that played hymns in the parlor?
What happened to the clock that hung on the dining room wall?
You stop in the kitchen, wavering,
Afraid of the sleek, humming metal boxes
That stand where you had only a cast iron stove
And a hand pump at the sink.
You reach for chairs that are not where you left them.
You close doors that are no longer there.
The night wears on; soon it will be day.
You hear the whine of the trucks on the interstate.
The plaster walls vibrate at the hum of tires –
Sounds you could never have imagined.
As the dawn light turns to gray I stir in my bed.
You are disquieted, not sure whether to stay
Or to fade into the cracks and dark places
Of your antique house.
I know you are there. I see, or perhaps feel
Your face hovering in the gloom of the front hall,
You with your sallow cheeks and large, doleful eyes
Which stare at me, cold and vacant,
As they always stare.
Former resident of this old, crooked house,
You watch me open the creaking doors.
You are puzzled to find that your bony hands
Can not turn the glass door knobs,
Yet your breath moves the lace curtains
We have hung in your windows.
Old husbandman, you slowly shake your head at me
As I grope my way through the dark to the old farm kitchen.
I fear that turning on a light will scare you away.
Your watchful presence is unnerving,
Yet somehow comforting.
We are old friend, ghostly companion. Your gray face
Watches me move about the house
With no expression of comprehension.
I hear you closing cabinet doors in the kitchen
Or pounding on the wall outside the back door.
I think it troubles you to see how your house has become old,
How it sags and leans toward the brook
From which your blond sons once pulled trout.
When I pace the confines of your narrow, antique attic
You stand patiently by the fly-specked window, watching me.
And I have the feeling that there is something you would like to say
If you could but bring forth sound from your dusty throat.
I sense your presence throughout the house.
When I stoop bemused in your cramped. musty cellar,
Wondering how much longer the rusting boiler will last
I know you are there with me, also watching.
In the attic, as I look out at the back yard
Through the fly-specked windows you are there,
You and the other wavering shadows
Who still guard this antique house.
I leave the kitchen and return to your bedroom, sliding quietly
Between the sheets so as not to disturb my wife.
As I lie there, listening to my wife and the soft rise and fall of her sleep
I know you are there, too.
Now I can hear you all, crowded together in the hush
Of the empty dining room. You whisper to each other
With dry, paper-thin voices that are like
The rustling of the leaves on the lilacs outside the window.
You look around, revenant inhabitants of this narrow house;
You stare, amazed by what you see.
Where is the reed organ that played hymns in the parlor?
What happened to the clock that hung on the dining room wall?
You stop in the kitchen, wavering,
Afraid of the sleek, humming metal boxes
That stand where you had only a cast iron stove
And a hand pump at the sink.
You reach for chairs that are not where you left them.
You close doors that are no longer there.
The night wears on; soon it will be day.
You hear the whine of the trucks on the interstate.
The plaster walls vibrate at the hum of tires –
Sounds you could never have imagined.
As the dawn light turns to gray I stir in my bed.
You are disquieted, not sure whether to stay
Or to fade into the cracks and dark places
Of your antique house.
Making the Bed
We face each other.
The object of our common purpose, a rectangle of white,
Lies knee-high between us.
I stand on my side, you stand on yours,
Making up the bed for another week.
First comes the bottom sheet, fitted like a purse
To the shape of our mattress by a puckered edge of elastic.
We stretch it tight and tug it over the mattress corners.
The mattress bends upward like a canoe:
Our bed of dreams.
Next is the top sheet, which you unfurl.
It sinks to the bed like a parachute, with a white, clothesline smell.
We spread it out, making sure that the portion of the sheet
That hangs off each side is the same.
After that we spread out the blue blanket
That was a wedding present from a maiden aunt.
The tattered edging is all that remains
Of a well mannered pet cat, long dead.
On top of the blue blanket we drape the heavy, bone-white wool blanket,
That was woven on a farm in Aroostook County by my great-grandmother
Nearly eighty years ago. Little did she know
How well it would keep us warm, so many years later.
When its weight presses and holds us snug in the dark
As the winter winds blow.
As we work we talk and laugh about little things,
Or go about our task in comfortable silence,
All the time smoothing, straightening, and tucking the edges in tightly.
The bed frame adds its own comments with a squeak or a creak
From time to time: the comments of an old maple bed
My wife's parents once slept upon.
The blankets are in place now; we add the finishing touches.
You prefer to hospital corners for your side.
It doesn't matter to me how the blankets are tucked in,
Just as long as a midnight tug doesn't bring them riding
Up over my shins, leaving my feet in the cold.
You fold your side with care. I push the blankets
Under my side of the mattress with a knife-like jab.
The bed, though small, can accomodate
Such differences in folding and tucking philosophies.
Now we stuff each pillow into its cotton sack.
There are four: two pillows are used under each head
For reading, but only one apiece is needed for sleep.
Then, at last, we lay out the bedspread.
It is white, heavy and tufted. You know the name
Of the pattern; I have forgotten it.
Finally we ease the last wrinkles out
By pinching the bedspread between
Thumb and forefinger, then tugging gently.
We straighten up. We have finished.
The bed lies trim and tidy between us.
It is thus we change the sheets once a week,
Working together, apart yet near.
Devoted to the common goal of making smooth, neat,
And comfortable our bed of marriage.
The object of our common purpose, a rectangle of white,
Lies knee-high between us.
I stand on my side, you stand on yours,
Making up the bed for another week.
First comes the bottom sheet, fitted like a purse
To the shape of our mattress by a puckered edge of elastic.
We stretch it tight and tug it over the mattress corners.
The mattress bends upward like a canoe:
Our bed of dreams.
Next is the top sheet, which you unfurl.
It sinks to the bed like a parachute, with a white, clothesline smell.
We spread it out, making sure that the portion of the sheet
That hangs off each side is the same.
After that we spread out the blue blanket
That was a wedding present from a maiden aunt.
The tattered edging is all that remains
Of a well mannered pet cat, long dead.
On top of the blue blanket we drape the heavy, bone-white wool blanket,
That was woven on a farm in Aroostook County by my great-grandmother
Nearly eighty years ago. Little did she know
How well it would keep us warm, so many years later.
When its weight presses and holds us snug in the dark
As the winter winds blow.
As we work we talk and laugh about little things,
Or go about our task in comfortable silence,
All the time smoothing, straightening, and tucking the edges in tightly.
The bed frame adds its own comments with a squeak or a creak
From time to time: the comments of an old maple bed
My wife's parents once slept upon.
The blankets are in place now; we add the finishing touches.
You prefer to hospital corners for your side.
It doesn't matter to me how the blankets are tucked in,
Just as long as a midnight tug doesn't bring them riding
Up over my shins, leaving my feet in the cold.
You fold your side with care. I push the blankets
Under my side of the mattress with a knife-like jab.
The bed, though small, can accomodate
Such differences in folding and tucking philosophies.
Now we stuff each pillow into its cotton sack.
There are four: two pillows are used under each head
For reading, but only one apiece is needed for sleep.
Then, at last, we lay out the bedspread.
It is white, heavy and tufted. You know the name
Of the pattern; I have forgotten it.
Finally we ease the last wrinkles out
By pinching the bedspread between
Thumb and forefinger, then tugging gently.
We straighten up. We have finished.
The bed lies trim and tidy between us.
It is thus we change the sheets once a week,
Working together, apart yet near.
Devoted to the common goal of making smooth, neat,
And comfortable our bed of marriage.
Whippoorwill
Two a.m.
I can not sleep.
Through the open windows I can hear
The trees hissing, tossed by a warm wind.
A whippoorwill chants its circular song.
Through the monitor on the mantle
I hear your labored breath
As you lie in the next room
Busy with the hard work of dying.
2/10/02
I can not sleep.
Through the open windows I can hear
The trees hissing, tossed by a warm wind.
A whippoorwill chants its circular song.
Through the monitor on the mantle
I hear your labored breath
As you lie in the next room
Busy with the hard work of dying.
2/10/02
5.2.09
In which we return to our cast of characters
Simon, Martin, Thomas, Winston, Alex, Edward, Gordon – quite a few people have contributed to this blog.
Gordon is a bit of a snob, especially when it comes to grammar and word usage. He fancies himself a grammarian.
Martin's concerned about politics.
Alex is just a complainer – and a cynic.
Simon's a funny duck – a bit introspective.
Edward's opinionated and, in general, dissatisfied with everything.
Winston's got hostility issues.
Thomas is accident-prone.
And our humble, anonymous narrator . . . of him, the less said the better.
Gordon is a bit of a snob, especially when it comes to grammar and word usage. He fancies himself a grammarian.
Martin's concerned about politics.
Alex is just a complainer – and a cynic.
Simon's a funny duck – a bit introspective.
Edward's opinionated and, in general, dissatisfied with everything.
Winston's got hostility issues.
Thomas is accident-prone.
And our humble, anonymous narrator . . . of him, the less said the better.
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