I overheard a man telling another
About a friend who used to respond to
Everything by saying, “This too shall pass.”
“That was good when times were bad,”
I heard the man say,
“But it was bad when it was good.”
Poetry
“Always There Is This Hunger”
Already there is this hole
Where hopelessness hides
From the sunrise on the hill. Already
There is this heart that tightens
As lovers my own age pass me,
Hand in hand, walking up
The hill as I walk down it. Already
There are these eyes that narrow
In the time it takes to drive
Down the hill to town. And always
There is this hunger for some sustenance
Not known, not offered, not here. Always
This hunger that does nothing but grow.
I am told awareness is the cure,
That to be aware of it is to grow out of it,
But all that grows out of my awareness
Is the hunger itself, of which I am
More than aware. It growls in me as I pedal
Up the hill that separates where I live
From where I do not feel alive.
It moans in me when, alone,
I still feel apart from myself.
It sings in me as I dance it out,
And I wait as, bit by bit, it
Again begins to gnaw at me
After the music has ended
And I sit here, writing with and through it,
All through this blood moon night.
“The Quiet Absurdity of Writing Poetry”
I doubt I’ll ever write ‘the poem,’
The one that will be the last,
The one that will finally satisfy me,
Of which I’ll be able to say,
‘This poem is the one,
The poem I needed to write.
I need write no more.’
No,
Once one has truly begun
In quiet absurdity to write poetry,
There is no one poem that fulfills one fully,
And there is no one who
Can take one away
From the task, which goes on.
Which means enduring,
Writing always one more.
“In and Out”
After too long locked up in confines created by other people,
It is best to confine yourself to yourself,
To close the door and lock it, and wait.
Only then, you insist, can you create.
But wait,
What is this feeling seething within you, ready to erupt up and out?
A feeling of confinement, enclosure, entrapment:
You have closed yourself off to open your heart,
Only to feel your soul contract;
You have set the trap to catch the Muse unawares,
Only to fall into it yourself;
You have confined yourself to yourself,
Only to find rejection of yourself at your core.
Yes, you have.
Now that the door is closed,
And you the one who closed it,
You need out,
You yearn with unwavering intensity
For some taste of something alive
To feed you
Into something like Life.
Out, out!
The sun is shining, water is flowing, people are dancing:
Somewhere there must be someone whose aliveness
You can feed off, some of whose lifeblood
You can force to ooze into your waning spirit,
Be the waxing moon to your crescent lack,
The saving grace for your present attack of disarray and disengagement.
Someone out there, surely, will save you from your self-induced self-abasement.
Out! Engage!
Get out of yourself,
That’s what they all say.
Going out! Being out-going! Talking to everyone you meet on the streets—
Words, words, words—
You don’t even know what you’re saying, but you’re out,
Going, getting around, walking around the city square,
Around and around and around,
Talking and using so many words,
Speaking to so many people.
Too many people!
Too many words!
You feel like you’re spinning around on a carousel,
Going in circles!
Around and around and around,
You’ve been out for too long,
It feels like years and years.
In, in! Disengage!
Close the door and lock it,
And wait.
Only now, you insist, can you create.
Now you’re in,
You’ve closed the door to re-open your heart,
You’ve locked the door to unlock the window to your soul.
Now you’ve done it,
You’ve finally done what needed to be done,
You’ve made it in:
Now there is nothing to do but wait,
Nothing at all
To do
But wait…
And so you wait.
“Questions”
Why should I long, and what for?
I need nothing, I want for nothing;
I have all I need; I find myself wanting.
Where should I go, and what for?
I need go nowhere; I am where I need to be,
Yet I find myself wanting, wanting to leave,
To flee these calm woods
For the restless seas.
How should I act, and for how long
Will this play go on?
How many acts are in store?
How many more stories will be built, and
Which one will stand atop the rest?
Which ones will go, which ones will stay?
What story will they tell of the ones
Who refused the part they were assigned to play?
Who could I tell,
Who would listen, who has no part to play,
Who I am, when I part from the stage?
What would I say? What words would I use?
Should words be used? Should they be used at all?
Who could I tell,
Who is not used to using,
Who I am in silence, without using words?
When will she return, she who left long ago,
She who I yearn to know?
Where has she gone, she who is always going,
She who has yet to return?
When will I return, I who do not know where to go,
I who I yearn to know?
Where have I gone, I who am sitting right here,
I who have yet to return?
What would it matter if by some unknown power
My bodily matter were extinguished
By morning’s first light?
Would I leave anything to light anyone’s way?
What can I perceive of the unknown power
I cannot hold—now falling on the roof as rain,
Now rising over the hill as Light?
What can I leave with the Day before it turns into Night?
“These Are The Nights”
There are nights when you can’t sleep until you’ve made efforts to awaken,
nights you feel fully the futility of all your efforts,
your eternal failure to wake up in time.
These are the nights when the knowledge that you are spirit is simply that,
for these nights you feel spiritless,
and the feeling in you masters the knowledge.
These are the nights you pick up book after book, putting each one down
after a few sentences. You turn off the light to go stand on the porch,
and you hunger for the moon to give you one true word.
These are the nights when you know the dawn
will not revitalize or exorcise, will only terrorize you as only it can,
nights you wish would last longer so you could remain hidden in darkness.
These are the nights you spend weighing your options,
oscillating between extremes, unable to balance unstable dreams
of who you might have been with the unmovable weight of who you are.
“Crouched Creature of the Plains”
Do I have it in me to write a poem tonight?
Some poems are written like an elk hide is tanned.
I fix my posture, sit up straight in this chair:
A straight-backed poem, coming right up.
Not strait-laced but shame-faced,
Dismayed that this need to write these words
Will not let me rest, will not let me alone.
What is it in me that will not let me alone?
Now that I’m sitting up straight, I wait
For the poem to come.
Some poems are written like a gazelle leaping over a fence,
Other poems are written like a lion devouring a gazelle.
Will the lion in my heart devour the lion in my mind?
No, more likely they will meet as estranged sister and brother,
And one will chase the other through the savannah in the noonday sun
As I sit here in the midnight darkness, waiting.
To chase yourself is to admit both your speed and your lack of speed:
The self you chase is fast, while the self who chases could not be slower.
Then again, the self who chases can run as fast as it is possible to run,
But it will be never be fast enough to catch the invisible self he pursues.
The problem here can be stated quite simply:
There is a self that chases and a self that is pursued.
And there are many more than these two.
Why this multiplicity of selves?
Why can there not be one self, one man?
If the man were one, he could let himself alone.
He could make great efforts and enjoy his work,
He could rest and enjoy his rest.
But there is a self that chases and a self that is pursued,
And these are only two of many.
One self gets out of bed in the mountains at midnight, sits up straight in a chair,
As the other self gets away, a crouched creature of the plains hidden in noonday sun.
“Not Yet Midnight”
This cabin is a mess, clothes and books strewn about, but I can’t imagine cleaning it.
There have been nights when the music of crickets has brought me to tears;
Tonight I look back on my weeping with pitiless scorn,
And I look on my despair with detached indifference.
My pain feels like it belongs to someone else who I don’t even know well.
I remember nights when I’ve roamed the town, looking for music to dance to,
And the wild-eyed despair of drunks I do not know has filled my heart with tears.
I can no longer weep for the pain of someone I do not even know,
I can no longer feel that anyone belongs anywhere,
I can no longer listen to the sounds of night and feel silence deep within me.
It is Friday, not yet midnight.
If I went down to town I could probably find a place to dance for an hour or two.
In fifty years I won’t be able to dance like I can now; Maybe I will not be able
To dance at all. If I am living, I hope I will not be speaking.
These are the thoughts that came just now when I thought about dancing.
I want to feel that everyone belongs somewhere,
I want to listen to the sounds of night and feel silence reverberate all through me,
I want to weep for the pain of all the ones I do not know and will never understand.
I remember evenings when I’ve sat naked on Spruce Mountain, looking down on town,
And the sun going down on me has filled my heart with glowing laughter.
“Muse”
I shatter and break,
I heal and take heed,
I heed a call I no longer hear;
I do not know if what I do not hear
still calls me.
I cannot wake up early enough
to cover the distance
that divides me from myself.
I haven’t heard from you
since I wrote you that long letter.
I can’t remember
if I put my return address.
Would you have me say,
“Please return to me?”
You know I have too much pride,
too little faith, too much doubt.
I don’t know if I’ve ever believed in you,
and I’ve always struggled to believe in myself,
never knowing who I was
struggling to believe in.
Would you have me say,
“I was wrong, I admit my error,
I open myself to your truth?”
You know I am much too stubborn;
I resist too much
And am too opposed
to any truth not my own.
But I hear you saying,
“This is not a truth that is not yours
nor is it believing in your self alone.
This is opening to a truth
that is mine and that is yours,
a truth between us
that covers the distance
that never existed,
that unites what was never divided,
that heals and makes whole
what already is.”
I hear you saying,
“How could I return to you,
I who never left you?
How could I write you a letter,
I who am written in your soul
when you see a cloud lit up by the sunrise,
when you see a man on a bridge over a freezing river,
when you see a child standing in the light?
Is not each true word you put down
written by me,
with me in you?”
I hear these words,
but is it you I hear
who speaks them?
Or do I only hear the empty space
between you and me
which these words cannot fill?
Is there space between,
and is it empty?
I do not know
where each true word comes from.
I cannot say it comes from me,
not knowing what that would mean.
You ask if it is written with you in me.
Is that true?
Do I ask myself,
or do I ask you?
Who do I ask if I ask you,
and how will I know your answer?
Do I ask to receive an answer?
I Was Never
I was never less understood than when she said, “Tell me how I should understand you best.”
I was never in greater sorrow than when she asked, “How can I make you happy?”
I was never in more intense passion than when she said, “I never see you show emotion. Sometimes I think you’re a cold person.”
I was never more inward than when she said, “You don’t have to be afraid. You can open up to me.”
I was never more helpless and alone than when she said, “Let me help you feel less alone.”
