Monday, April 15, 2013

The Need to be Watched,
and Reminders I Am

Intelligent dust—
                              bobbing,
                                             to the birdsong,
interpreting the information
                                               from the rocks
who articulate the water
                                         pulsing
                                                     through them
—maybe no more intelligent
                                                than us
but willful, as we are,
                                    who hear
                                                     marimbas
in the stream,
                        but to them...

who have no problem
                                     dissolving in aetherial waves
it's natural to know that birds
                                                 are testing out melodies
along electric wavelengths
                                             of the spheres where music is,

and even the paper trees
                                          crackle in the orchestra
and things drop to the moss
                                                and whistle through the leaves
on a score that we can't read
                                                 by the rivulets of water like
some Austrian composer
                                          who rides his charges hard
because the sound it makes
                                               is true.

The train
                in full human cry
                                              decides then to come through
but it's silent
                      in the teething of the wind
and all its hidden
                             being.

I have nothing here;
                                   I'm allowed only eyes.
Squirrels paint
                         friezes of the trees.
Forsythia cleans
                            the early evening sun.

What was not there suddenly
                                                  is,
the world of skunk cabbage
                                               and daffodils
—enough of a world—
                                      turns
to allow a moment of grace:
                                               everything
is metaphor.

2 comments:

the walking man said...

I like that you leave hints to your metaphorical content in your "genera." How I read it silently changed it when I read it aloud and then when I read the tags I could see the vastly different members of a functioning family in pursuit of a life that encompasses so much variety.

Did I ever tell you my 2nd oldest son lives in your state which being not that big must live somewhere close to you. I hope it be true because we are trying to line up a quick drive through in July and I would certainly like to meet you if possible.

erin said...

while there is so much i love (LOVE!) in this poem, this seems the most important, "I have nothing here;/I'm allowed only eyes."

but then the grace...

but then the metaphor...

for me this poem and your next are your best...or perhaps this is because today i hear your voice so clearly. but it is more than this. i was looking to be moved before i went out into the world to run the road up along the river and through the woods. i am in need of both the run and the movement by way of spirit, the world such a fucked up and desolate place for its violences. and i hear you. i feel you. my dirty human face gets its temporary cleansing but with measured truth.

skunk cabbage and daffodils, thank god))))

xo
erin