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Posts Tagged ‘darkness’

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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