Saturday, July 25
He sang the brightness of mornings and green rivers,
He sang of smoking water in the rose-colored daybreaks,
Of colors: cinnabar, carmine, burnt sienna, blue,
Of the delight of swimming in the sea under marble cliffs,
Of feasting on a terrace above the tumult of a fishing port,
Of the tastes of wine, olive oil, almonds, mustard, salt.
Of the flight of the swallow, the falcon,
Of a dignified flock of pelicans above a bay,
Of the scent of an armful of lilacs in summer rain,
Of his having composed his words always against death
And of having made no rhyme in praise of nothingness.
-- Czeslaw Milosz, lines from "Orpheus and Eurydice" second space
Posted by rb at 7/25/2009
Saturday, July 11
Saturday, July 4
Any time. Now. The next minute.
Years from today. You lean forward
and wait. You relax, but you don't forget.
Someone plans an elaborate party
with a banquet, dancing, even fireworks
when feasting is over. You look at them:–
All those years when you searched the world
like a ferret, these never happened–your marriage,
your family, prayers, curses. Only dreams.
A vacuum has opened everywhere. Cities,
armies, those chairs ranked in the great
hall for the audience–there isn't anyone.
Like a shutter the sky opens and closes
and the show is over. The next act
will deny that anything ever happened.
Your hand falls open. It is empty. It never
held a knife, a flower, gold,
or love, or now. Lean closer–
Listen to me: there isn't any hand.
-- William Stafford, from The Answers Are Inside the Mountains
Posted by rb at 7/04/2009