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Posts Tagged ‘darkness’

A Lesson in Shading

So first, you imagine the light bulb,

he says, then he draws one on the page

so I won’t have to imagine too hard.

And then, he says, you draw a dark line

under the object, assuming that there

will not be much light underneath it.

He moves his pencil forcefully

to darken the bottom of the square.

Next, he says, you move your hand

as far from the light as possible

and make it darker there.

I watch as he fills in the spaces

where white has been.

There is something vital

in all of us that leans toward the dark.

I notice the depth that the shadows

have brought to the page, so like the shadow

into which we are pulled and pulled.

Even now, the darkest parts of us

are kindling our greatest light.

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Make that case for darkness.
—Cameron Scott

All day the sun is lavish with its gold—
it touches every surface that it finds,
but there is nothing darkness will not hold.

In morning, all the garden flowers unfold
and midday light encourages the vines—
all day the sun is lavish with its gold.

The jeweled snake emerges from the cold,
receives the sun to warm its cambered spine,
but there is nothing darkness will not hold.

Like sun, it holds the blooms, the vines, the bold,
it also holds the undersides, the hinds.
All day the sun is lavish with its gold,

still there’s so much it cannot touch. Its whole
domain is only surface deep. Confined.
But there is nothing darkness cannot hold—

all forms, all feelings, shadows, spaces, souls.
Dark knows no differences, it draws no lines.
All day the sun is lavish with its gold,
but there is nothing darkness will not hold.

*A NOTE ON TODAY’S FORM … AS EXPLAINED BY POETS.ORG

The highly structured villanelle is a nineteen-line poem with two repeating rhymes and two refrains. The form is made up of five tercets followed by a quatrain. The first and third lines of the opening tercet are repeated alternately in the last lines of the succeeding stanzas; then in the final stanza, the refrain serves as the poem’s two concluding lines. Using capitals for the refrains and lowercase letters for the rhymes, the form could be expressed as: A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2.

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Black Friday

Oh America, get out of the mall.
Get out of the box stores, the boutiques
and fast food drive thrus. I don’t know
where else you might go … a forest,
perhaps, or over to your friend’s kitchen
where there is a cup of tea and an empty chair
near the window where, if you look
out into the snow-filled yard you might just see
how lovely that light is as it escapes
one more time, one more time.

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We wait until the plants are dead.
That’s the time to harvest. First,
we pull away the straw. The dirt

below is damp and rich. We rake
with our fingers lightly then,
so as not to scrape the skin of

potatoes near the top. And oh,
that first glimpse of gold, how
we laugh and remind ourselves,

Go slow. After all, we’ve been
waiting all summer. But sometimes,
in the company of delight,

it’s hard to wait a second longer.
I want to say something to my son
about trust, about the way

that marvelous things sometimes
need the dark in order to grow. But
it is the quiet, now, that I love.

The silence of four hands moving
the dirt. Finn pulls another potato
from the earth, holds it up for me to see.

We shake our heads in what, awe?
Dumb wonder at our luck? And plunge
our hands deeper, deeper into the darkness.

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But Sometimes I Forget

Is it truly dark, or is this darkness
like what we call night—

nothing more than our backs
turned to the sun.

It is not the light that has changed.
It’s a matter of where we stand.

Though I know this, the night
appears no less dark.

Sometimes, when I
lose hope for the world,

I ask myself if I have lost hope in you,
if I have lost hope in me.

Always the answer
is the same.

By now you would think
I would never forget

that the sun is only one
of many, many lights.

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You need not fear the night, my child.
Evening comes to everything.
It finds the raspberries by the road,
it finds the rabbit in her hole.
It finds the river and all its swells.
The evening comes to everything.

As silently as the rainbow bends
the evening comes to everything.
And the roadrunner stops his running
and the honey bees stop their buzzing
and the rattlesnakes stop their sunning
as the evening comes to everything.

As dark and graceful as raven’s wings,
the evening comes to everything.
Even the raindrops as they are falling,
and the Rosa woodsii as it’s blooming
and the wily raccoon who goes exploring,
yes, the evening comes to everything.

I used to fear the darkness, too,
and prayed all night for morning.
But feel how evening holds the world—
the animals, the boys, the girls,
the moms, the dads, the plants, the birds,
it holds us together, our differences blur—
oh, evening come to everything.

*An R poem for Lian Canty’s Alphabet Menagerie

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It all began with the dark, of course, like any good poem.
And then there was the problem of how exactly to bring in
some light. Dawn, of course, but that just seemed too obvious.
Fireflies, but that would be too childish. Bioluminescence?
Too obscure. The need: something everyone can relate to. The poem,
of course, was not at all about the dark. It was about the teenage girl
who had killed perhaps thirty men for the thrill of killing. She lost count,
she told the newspaper reporter, after twenty-two men.
But that is too gruesome to write about: the knife blade, the blood,
the groping, the new husband in the back of the car waiting with a cord, the cult.
So the poem was about dark. And for light, not the moon. No.
Too sacred, somehow, and there are just too many poems
about the moon. Light bulbs, well, there’s a metaphor for you.
And a joke, too. But the poem was just not in the mood for a joke
and despite a surplus of 40 watt bulbs in the closet,
it decided that the dark was best, after all, and
just sat there, quietly, considering the dark.

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Sometimes when you
are not looking at me
I soften my gaze as if
I might see right through
the layers of you to the center.
Perhaps I think I will find
an orchard there, in bloom,
of course, tiny pink flowers
on the blackened branches
of peach trees, or perhaps
I think I will find there a river
undammed and unmapped
and a small red boat with two oars.
And sometimes if I am very
still and very soft I
see in you a puddle
of darkness. And when
I am soft and still and very
brave I dare to put a toe
into the pool and then,
miraculous, I touch the infinite
darkness.

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Five Solsticings

in the darkness,
a hint, is it real?
light

*

thank you world
for these disappointments
I would have become
without them so comfortable,
so certain, so stuck

*

now, is it time,
is it time yet, is it time
says the seed

*

in the river of self
surprised to find I am also
the dam, the eddy

*

longest night
and still darkness does not
swallow everything

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Ready to Sleep

Darkness comes so early now,
though it is only a trick
of the hands. The darkness
has not changed. It is the same,
the same as it ever was,
vast and ever expanding they say,
only this time of year
it appears from here that there
is more of it. And that it comes earlier
than it did.

Sometimes it cannot get dark enough.
Sometimes I fall in love
with the way that it
holds me entirely, not like the light.
With the light, there is always
a shadow somewhere.
But with dark, it touches me
everywhere and at once,
rubbing me sweetly till
my every line is erased.

In Sierra Leone, they speak of the days
when there was no darkness, no night.
Then God gave a basket to the bat
and told him to give it to the moon.
Tell Moon, said God, I will be by soon
to explain how it is to be used.

The basket was full of darkness.
And the bat lashed it to his back
and he flew and he flew and he flew
until he needed to search for food.
He set the basket for a moment down,
and while he was gone it was found
by another hungry animal who pried
the basket open. Bat returned only seconds
too late, but the darkness had escaped.

Sometimes I feel like the bat in this story,
who tries for the rest of his days
to gather the darkness back into wings
and contain it in the basket again.
As if I could hold the darkness instead
of it holding me. As if I could control
something as vast as immortality.
So the darkness does what it does,
it escapes. It escapes. It escapes again.
I stand with my empty basket at the edge
of the only world I know where
I swear the night seems longer,
and I wonder if perhaps
at last I am getting somewhere.

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When it’s dark,
we tell ourselves
any story we can
about the return
of the light. Say
there’s a mother
grieving her daughter
who’s lost
to an underground king.
Say there’s a sister
who hides in a cave
fearing her brother
the god of storms.
Say that through lures
or begging, the girls
are returned, they
bring light
in their wake.
Use history. Say
the light’s always
come back before.
Use science. Say
it has something
to do with the tilt
and the turn and the rate.
Get fierce. Say you’ve seen
enough of hate.
Get desperate. Say
it takes only a crack.
Start chanting. Start
dancing. Bake cakes
filled with cream.
Give your blood. Give
money. Give any offering.
Or taste the darkness.
Begin to know it as itself,
not as the lack of light.
Let it touch you everywhere.
Let it touch your everywhere else.
Feel how infinite it is.
Say nothing. Get quieter.
Be very curious.

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Distracted by the Universe

in the vein of WCW

I’m sorry
I let the fire
go out.
It was so
starry.
So dark.

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between the night
and the fear, a door appears
a dark bird sings, sings

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Inquiry

I have been living
closer to darkness
than I thought.
See how my shadow
is longer than the woman
who makes it. It moves
with me at the same pace,
every step.

I have tried to push back
the darkness. I have tried
to hold only light.
As if it were a war.
As if to be in darkness
were bad. And who is it
that is afraid of the dark?
And what would happen
if I let it swallow me whole?

I walk out into the night.
I look up. The light
on the corner gets in the way.
It is a long time
before I see the stars.

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The hotel’s sixth floor balcony
is high enough to see the Denver lights
and low enough to look up at the Double Tree sign,

which outshines the exile moon.
The air wears the thickness of city rain
recently fallen with nowhere to seep.

What loneliness cannot be met by the night?
Does dark travel as fast as the speed of light,
or is it the given, the track, the slate?

On Quebec Street, the buses are empty.
They stop at the corner and wait, then go on.
And the night, it somehow holds us all

on our separate stoops, in our separate doors,
on our separate lawns with our separate lives,
hold us all, doesn’t even ask our names.

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every moment flees its own overflowing
—Karen Chamberlain, Ephedra

no birds wheel
in the air tonight—
wings in my song

*

swallowing darkness
in great gulps
a few stars catch in my teeth

*

I really thought
I knew something
about not knowing

*

gathering ephedra
my hands
are not my own hands

*

naked
I wear
a red dress

*

the night sky offered
to loan me its black skirt
hope it’s not too small

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We remark those bugs
that hurl themselves
toward the light
and perhaps, because
we too are focused there,
we miss all those insects
that rocket themselves
deeper and deeper
quiet, as fast as they can
into the infinite dark.

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I guess I’d make
a crummy bird … here I am
singing in the darkness.

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It was dim
then
starless

who would guess
this was a gift

now whatever path
there is

is lit

by my own

light

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Both the light and the shadow are at home in the heart.
–Jan Garrett & JD Martin, “Love Wins”

The shell
cracks

the fracture
gaps

and light
streams in

to reveal
another shell

not yet
begun

to
crack

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