Posts Tagged ‘dark’

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.

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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.


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One Eventually




arriving in the dark

at my own doorstep

learning at last

to leave the light on

for myself

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astonished how much light

can fill a note so dark—

singing it again, again

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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.



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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.

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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.

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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.

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I’ll be your harvester of light.
—Sara Bareilles, “Winter Song”

Darling, it is dark.
Here are my hands,
the hidden spirals
in the palms. And here,
from my fingertips,
my forehead, my feet,
streams of photons—
invisible beacons,
tiny energized
increments of light.
From yours, too. Imagine
the lattice we make.
The Buddhists say
we are what we are
only in relation
to what we are not.
This long night.
This darkness. This
thinking we are alone.

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Six Bafflements

it’s the dark, she says
crying, while all around us
the dark, the dark


same moon, same sky,
same woman, same why,
a crow flies by


behind every door
another door, this one
no light underneath


not once does the snake
look back at its skin and say
gee, I miss it


so much beauty
cannot be seen
without the dark


mama, she says,
there’s a window in my head
I kiss her there

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