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Posts Tagged ‘dark’

A Passing Truce

 

 

 

Beside the fire, inside

the dark, and lost amidst

the tide of thoughts,

there is a momentary warmth

that steeps into our every inch

and make us doubt

that we could ever feel

sharp cold again—

the mind, thus warmed,

forgets to quarrel and simply

nestles closer—and the dark itself

comes nearer by and we

lean in together.

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One in Deep December

 

 

the night asked me

to read its poetry, all that ink

scrawled across the world—

 

reading late without the light,

I, too, become page, poem

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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.

 

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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.

 

 

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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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Day of the Dead

for Babette

 

 

Out the window, a moonless dark.

Sometimes inside, it is moonless, too.

Then we come to realize

how we rely on things

outside of ourselves to see.

 

This morning, sitting in the dark

with my eyes closed, I wondered

about the turning year,

and two words came to me.

More love. More love.

Curious now I did not think to ask how.

The words seemed both mantra and map,

both question and answer,

all-encompassing as the dark.

 

Do you remember that day

we tore out of our clothes

and slipped into the frigid lake

in northern Wisconsin?

How we laughed as we swam

deeper and deeper in.

How dark the water,

how it dripped light from our arms

as we raised them to pull

through the surface.

 

I am again swimming in the dark.

Sometimes I feel the cold

is too much for me.

It helps now to remember

that it’s possible to find laughter

in cold waters. More love. More love.

 

Just yesterday, I was thinking

of the way Jesus turned water to wine.

It is no use to ask how.

The invitation is to accept the miracle,

praise the change and drink.

 

Perhaps in these moonless times,

this is when we learn to make light

out of dark, the way two stones

make a spark. Now, perhaps,

is not the time to ask who we are,

but what we can do.

Now is the time for miracles.

More love. More love.

 

 

 

 

 

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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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