”We are led more clearly to see the insentient as sentient and the submission of self to be a disciplined action of individual will.” Martin Dubois on The Windover in his study of Hopkins
As the bay darkens,
the last of this year’s sunlight
glows in the dried grass.
Blessed are the poor
in spirit. That radiance,
cobalt water, cold
wind—they compose me
to know my own nothingness
in the moment’s mix.
Dim December light.
Something’s happening at low
tide. Something lights up.
Among black-headed
Canadian geese a mute
swan unbends its long
white neck to sip. I
live where not much happens, to
speak of, but this counts.
Out of the cold, from
a fold in my hoodie, a
scarlet lady bug.
It springs away from
the warmth of my body. Good
bye, fellow traveller.
We are separate
now. Our hard brittle nature
conceals suffering.
Living alone lasts
until a storm blows open
a window or sun-
light dazzles new snow.
The deeper into winter
the more we respond
to the silence: it
mocks the nothingness we take
as our very own.
A rare walk in the
dark. Habit replaces sight.
Mist disperses light
from windows and stop-
lights. My pedestrian muse
my true companion.
The faint sky moonless.
A shadow figure backlit
on the darkened path.
”In lyric awareness, we don’t know at arm’s length, we know as part of a larger whole.” Jan Zwicky, The Experience of Meaning, 163.
I see you walking
your dog. Your dog walks you, too.
When I say walk, I
mean wander under
the sky as I versify.
It’s just what happens.
My dog (my soul) counts
the steps we take, notes changes
in the light, sings with
the gulls out at sea,
turns us toward home. My dog
demands to be walked.
As it gets colder
my walks get shorter, but feel
longer, more intense.
Winter condenses
time into crystals, each one
its own metaphor
for timelessness. Fall
combines spring and summer mo-
ments, never winter.
I watch the TV
at the pub. The sound is off.
We all love football.
The light outside is
ripe. These fall days are smokey
with a long finish.
There are values and
values. I’ll go see an old
flame who lives alone.
”The importance of prayer is to demonstrate one’s attentiveness to the status of its own finitude.” Takeshi Morisato, Faith and Reason in Continental and Japanese Philosophy, Bloomsbury, p. 172.
I may not be re-
ligious but there are times
prayer stops me cold.
Like the resonance
of Basho’s elsewhere cuckoo.
In the overcast,
the green fire of a mallard
from the dark water.
”In order to use language as a musical medium we must also approach it as a physical medium, as sound.” Zwicky, The Experience of Meaning, 150.
Within earshot of
the pub I turn toward the
cove, the raucous sea-
gulls, glittering waves.
I close in on the silence
of fellow creatures.
A chorus of shrieks
in the impersonal glare
of winter sunlight.
Later I’ll stop by
and say hello to the girls
who sing in their prep.
Metaxyturn Diaries 