Sunday, October 18, 2020

Only life, only death...

 




The strong lean upon death as on a rock.

                                           

                                                   —Robinson Jeffers





Jeffers points to the permanent for poetry,

the things that last, have lasted, will last, 


like the tides, earth’s winds, seasons,

granite


and I’d hope too, the flotsam, 

like the waking aging body, 


midway through the night, 

a hundred years hence


will still make sense

in a poem.



**



and from Jeffers again, “…a drift of light rain…”


water-sheds of words, sweeps of waves

of rippled-runs of tongue-wrapped winds

that break and scratch and pull the page 


to the rhythm-syllabled songs at the outer edges

of oceans of unknowns,


feeling their way beyond their fields,

lifting with breaths the veils 

of abiding silences 



**



The teachers I’ve listened to, 

the many, it seems, have told me

all that’s truly needed has always

been here,


and with aging, that steadily fulfilling

press of living that sets its own terms, 


I’m learning how little I’ve actually heard,


as the truth of it all whispers away

in my ears.



**



Solstise


Morning holds its own.

We are allowed, more so embraced,

but morning holds its own,

our presence or not—and our presence,

if so, is given its all to receive, the fullness

of the day into the day and on into the dark,

whether we notice, or not, ours to do,

or not—as with yesterday’s unmarked arc,

less an arc than a lean, of summer 

toward the fall—unannounced, 

understandably unnoticeable,

but for the glance of gold-burnt leaves,

the tanned grasses of the peripheries,

the quiet lengthening of the hours of dark 

and the quickened life of those of light.




**



I’m thinking, wondering, if turning seventy-seven

is movement toward the eighties, simply seventies 

signaling a time to stop, or neither, 


in the wider scope of things, 

wondering how insignificant this musing is  


in the face of the immediacy of the day.


The ancients I believe, prodded us toward 

deeper appreciation for individual irrelevancy


—that is, a personal relevancy, if even measurable, 

measured as no more and no less than all the rest—


in order to allow more room for awe.



**



Blessings


It’s as quiet a Sunday

as are ever talked about,


sun’s gold a’glow on the hills,

the wide spread of deepening blue


certainty, sky empty

of any given direction,


yet very much present.



**



“…life’s value is life…”

                         Robinson Jeffers



“…the continuity of life is its meaning…”            

                            Robert Lax



**



Giving yourself to the whole,

you get all the parts,

and then some.



**



Metaphysics, for me, approach

weight, texture and tone of wider implication

than the ordinary, such as 

the heft of hummingbird wings 

or a leaf of bamboo, the touch of shade, 

color of shadow, the sound of granite

warming to the sun, the lilt of joy

under appreciative eyes, 

the refuge given and received

in the offered word.



**



The second day heat-wave sun

is in the west 


behind the house behind my head,


reaching over into the window 

across the street, 


ricocheting its intensity into my face, 

here in the shade.


That this too will pass, is the song  

of fence-climbing blossoms 


lifted in fingers of just come breezes.



**



—The surveyor’s work


it’s not so much about centers, as points 

along the way—any point might do, but a point

understood, a point true, counts differently, 

for with that point, from that point, all the rest 

takes its place where it lay over time.

Like when you finally come to such a place

and its just right line-of-sight for your life.



**



—October


Even morning’s moon 

is burnished with smoke’s haze.


The pines demur to darkness.

I too, try to divert my gaze.



**



Hearts beat

heart-beats,

each one

its own,


no thought

beyond

the beat,


that beat’s

song sung

brim-full

with beat,


lived then, 

lived there.


Timing,

precision:

body’s

issues.


Hearts beat

heart-beats.



**



—Report back


We have large windows and a deck

facing west, the neighbors too—awnings

hide us from the heat this time of year,

this year catch the ash from the smoke

from the north.


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