Fragment 22

Sappho, Fragment 22, from
If Not, Winter (Anne Carson)

“The spirit moves, but not always upward…”
[Theodore Roethke, “Meditations of an Old Woman”]

a.

waking this morning, an arm would not work

sleep & weight had robbed it of its force

it only took minutes to return at the elbow, then the wrist

a look in the mirror showed:

sleep left heavy lines across my face

if not today, what is winter?

temperature falling through the afternoon,

wind nearly silent through thick glass,

no pain afflicts the body

but much is seen, in its waves

because I prayed for clarity

this word: patience

I want to feel you near me

b.

there is only so much one can stand: work

satisfies until it doesn’t.

which face will show this morning:

the one that is impatient? enthusiastic?

exasperated? content? if not winter, when

will the prizes arrive? certainly not spring.

No pain without desire.

Is this because I prayed for accolades?

I should have never heard this word: ποιϝέω.

I want to be silent.

c.

being here with you is never work

(always home)

I never fail to see us both in each face

(the three boys who won’t stay still)

we will stay close, if not, winter,

no pain can preserve us from time

because I prayed that they would grow,

this word: patience &

I want, I want, I want

them to slow down

d.

work stacks & family holds

this face knows all four seasons

(if the spirit moves)

what is premature spring if not winter?

there is no pain if no loss,

all is temporary anyway:

(if the spirit moves)

because I prayed for happiness

this word: expectation

I want & must endure the spin

of gain & loss & loss & gain

(if the spirit moves)

Direction

In the beginning: oppositional Mars was not more than a pink speck, slightly larger than the rest, in the East above my neighbor’s house.

Somewhere down a long, familiar road an old love appeared new in the odd Winter's half-light. Falling in love with the shape of a tree in February has as much to do with skyline, the distance beyond, a cut of light, & sky so pink it might be flesh, as it does with the way the skinny bones reach out to embrace their own emptiness, want of nest, bloom, leaf, or errant kite.

But here, in this hurtling car, my sounds are less than nothing: beat, breath, synaptic fire: silenced by the friction of rubber & road, glass & wind.

(Suddenly, I recall the almost visible ribbon of geese I heard in last night’s darkness, still calling, now more necessary, perhaps, as their bodies blend into the midnight, blue-black vacancy. Is it wind they follow, or are they pushed by a force they do not know, a stream, though invisible, that they are more comfortable swimming in? They were gone as quickly as they arrived. Silence persists.)

Here, now, Mars, moon & Venus all down, or at least invisible, the meditation ends as one last streetlamp extinguishes, the trail of its light a chromatic halo, ephemeral, like a last note of birdsong or the final syllable of a hummed matin.

And I am alone again with all my doubts, all my loves, intact.

For Love

For Love

What the mind idealizes & the body desires,

something unknown accelerates, keeps, & makes last.

Some call it soul,

others heart or spirit,

but by whatever name

(& all words lack something essential)

it preserves, persuades, & protects.

It is there in the patter of a child,

in the needful relief of travel,

& in the shared glance of any given day.

It is the promise that makes forever possible;

It is the excitement of knowing one thing doesn't disappear.

______

Here's a link to a poem I wish I would have written: "Bird-Understander" by Craig Arnold

Here's a link to the Creeley poem that got mine started: "For Love" by Robert Creeley

Caliper

(for Brian)

"The cemetery expands its borders—
little milky crosses grow like teeth.
How kind time is, altering space
so nothing stays wrong; and light,
more new light, always arrives.”
[Spencer Reece, “At Thomas Merton’s Grave”]


What instrument do we use
to measure the capacity
of one’s character to
absorb loss?

The lies we live with
slide smoothly down the rule
only when the points
take & hold, without
slipping.

Then one day the beam breaks:
& every measurement is off.

------

I thought I'd always measure loss
on the little silver Mezurall
my father left in a drawer
(for me?)

It's in another drawer today,
(I kept it in a pocket for a while)
but I should have known:

Its length was never going to be enough.

-----

Your sister let each of us who were to carry you pick a pair of your socks from a plastic bag on the day we buried you. I chose Da Vinci’s calibrated man with his legs stretched into a pace that I'd never be able to keep.

-----

A life is lived on a hinge
that swings between eras
of unequal lengths & depths.

Sometimes it is a simple wind
that turns the gate between identities.

Then, again, storms destroy
what seemed so likely to stand,
so solid,so protected,
so easily measured.

When things finally settle again
& what’s left is gathered:
there is usually enough
to build the world again.

But once the rule is broken:
the measurements will
never again be exact.

88 Words

We arrive here improvised. [Szymborska]

Schedules persist whether we mind them or not. Thursday waits for no one. On a Wednesday two boys were born. Today was Wednesday, but the world lost a quiet poet. She survived more than her share. Sometimes one wonders if Saturday will ever come again. Or if Monday doesn't end soon, will all the artists stay home to save their cats from empty apartments. As it is, I'd rather be stunned by Sunday's silence: hear that? No, it was nothing, only one more minute clicking away.Tomorrow. Already.