untitled

another occasional poem:
i wrote the skeleton of this poem many years ago and then rewrote it this fall for my brother and his wife and read it at their wedding (although if you asked my father he would tell you that i didn’t just rewrite it, i rewrote it and then revised it and revised it and revised it and. . .)

i.
intent and focused,
i feel a gentle hand surprise my body and everything
falls into place with this
welcome interruption;

an inexpressible, inexplicable relief.

that same hand reaches out for mine before i request it,
and not a moment too soon
the fear rushes out of me;

and i know now that this is love:
the vital union of necessity when everything
suddenly
resolves into perfection

ii.
driving through the sunlight nothing matters
not our destination or even our words,
because we’re finally together;
poised,
trembling,
satisfied,
sincere.

and our hands,
knowing themselves all too well in one another
ask of us a grace:
all that we desire,
all that we suffer -
what we add to this gentle touch
with words never spoken.

fragments of a life

inspired by jars of clay and dionne brand

a couple of weeks ago, dionne brand was in winnipeg, reading from her latest work inventory. if only i could explain how this woman, her poetry and her voice, move me…

…until, it must be said, the moment when all women realize
the war they’re in, that the only possibility is falling
that the fragments of winter and music are only solemn
kisses to their half-life and only mercy and surrender move
their hand.

and jars of clay were in winnipeg today.
speaking with them and hearing them sing has reminded me of how the poetry of their song has woven its way into my life and my consciousness in a very powerful way. if i look through any of my journals i can find so many of their lines juxtaposed to mine, inspiring, upholding, and sustaining. i have listened to no one as much as i have listened to them and i have listened to them enough that their music could be the timeline of the last 10 years of my life.

Oh my God look around this place
fingers reach around the bone
You set the break and set the tone
flights of grace and future falls
in present pain
All fools say ‘Oh my God’

i wonder: do we interpret our lives in fragments?
as we write in our journals,
hearing songs, not symphonies,
and determining everything in a single moment
so unlike our creator
who knows everything without a single moment at all,
but all at once

“quebec”

who knew ‘but’s could be so sharp?
or the past tense?
the way you spoke me into history made me wonder if i was still breathing.

then my own poems
laughed at me.

i think fragmentation produces liminality.
and liminality demands patience.
yes, patience is the attribute that the liminal requires.

“How to be a Poet (to remind myself)”
Wendell Berry

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill – more of each
than you have – inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your work,
doubt their judgement…

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”