Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘dark’

Almost to Solstice

 

 

There is a light and it never goes out

            —The Smiths, There Is a Light That Never Goes Out

 

 

And even in these darkest days

in the darkest rooms

with the darkest thoughts

and the darkest words

with the darkest songs

in the dark-full ears

and when the darkening dreams

weights the darkest fear

even then there’s a light

and it never goes out,

even then, when the eyes

know only doubt, even then,

even then, there’s a hand

eager to spill shine

into our cup and all

we need to do is drink,

then pour a bit of shine

for someone else.

 

Read Full Post »

in part a response to Ferlinghetti’s “Instructions to Painters and Poets”

 

 

Teach me to paint the dark, the infinite

shades of the infinite dark, the basis of all

the light that is, the origin, the ink bright spark

 

that leaps from the great black well,

the darkling spring, the raven luck, the mother

from which the big bang sprang, the womb

 

of dawn, the only cloak measureless enough

to hold everything, everything in its folds.

Teach me to paint the inner midnight,

 

the moonless rooms, the lavish corners,

the mighty dark inside the fist, the vastness

of limitless space that links

 

with no effort the everything that is,

the everything that ever was, the everything

that will ever be. Teach me the song of soil,

 

the song of deep winter, the pure dark song

of the sea. All the dark that’s been terrorized

by light, and all the dark that’s been pushed away

 

and all the dark that’s been feared,

teach me its valor, its ferocity, its kindness,

its gentleness, its blinding generosity.

 

 

Read Full Post »

Black Out

 

 

A blazing fire makes flame and brightness out of everything that is thrown into it.

            —Marcus Aurelius

 

 

Let me be fire.

Let everything

ignite me.

Let the whole world

be kindling.

I’ll take all fuel.

Let me flash.

Let me flare.

Let me make brightness.

Give me the dark.

Let me blaze there.

Read Full Post »

 

after The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm by Wallace Stevens

 

 

 

The field was high and the sun was low

and the woman became the light; and the evening

 

slowed its pace perhaps to let the light remain.

The field was high and the sun was low.

 

She moved as though there were no night

worth fearing, as if the field could hold it all.

 

She leaned into the goldening, the way

the light itself leans softly on the world.

 

The night, a gentle friend, meandered quietly

across the land. There were no words

 

that could be said. The field was high

and the sun was lower. Slowly, hushed,

 

the wind a sigh, the field surrendered

all its lines. The darkness gathered

 

everything, the field, the woman, even

light, and made itself an offering.

 

Read Full Post »

One Eventually

 

 

 

arriving in the dark

at my own doorstep

learning at last

to leave the light on

for myself

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

astonished how much light

can fill a note so dark—

singing it again, again

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

I like the way he leans over the paper,

the way he pulls the black ink

 

across the page, the matter-of-fact way

he says, “Like this, Mom,

 

only you don’t have to be afraid

to make mistakes. They usually turn out.”

 

I want to tell him

his life is like these trees—

 

that no matter how much

he thinks he’s messed up,

 

there is no blotch or line

that cannot be transformed

 

into an opportunity.

Instead, I say, “Show me

 

what to do next,”

and he shows me how

 

to shade the sides

with small quick strokes,

 

the dark lines holding

so much light.

 

 

Read Full Post »

The Long Marriage

If the night were not dark enough,
not dark enough and too short,
then we perhaps would not
have had the patience to find again
in each other the light,
a tiny light, but still light enough,
enough to draw us close again—
that small light in the other
the only light that can lead us home.

Read Full Post »

Who Can Say?

Already the body
is dawn. Before
the eastern glow. Before

the edges of darkness
give up any of their darkness.
It is not that we deserve it,

this light. It is just
that here it is,
inside us, continuing

to grow, the way
plumeria seem to grow
on what looks like dead wood.

But grow they do, with
all that perfume, too,
and all that milky white.

Who can say how
such beauty comes
from what looks

lifeless? But it does.
Your blossoming,
my blossoming.

Crazy how light
it can be,
this darkness.

Read Full Post »

In the boat of night
my boy and I float.

There are no oars.
We use our voices

to move through
the waves. But

the currents take
us wherever the currents

take us. It is dark.
We hold each other

as if there is no one
else in the world.

For this moment,
there is no one else

in the world. There is
his voice. My voice.

His ears. My ears.
Our warmth. And

the cold all around.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: