Four Sonnets
1.
There appeared a darkly sparkling thing
hardly
bigger than a pin, that all afternoon
seemed
to want my company. It did me no hurt but
wandered
my shirt, my sleeve-cuff, my wrist.
Finally it opened its sheets of chitin and
flew away.
Linnaeus probably had given it a name, which I
didn’t know. All I could say was: Look
what’s come from its home of dirt and dust
and duff, its
cinch of instinct. What does music, I wondered,
mean to it?
What the distant horizons? Still, no doubt have I
that it has some purpose, as we all have
some purpose which, though none of us
knows what it is, we each go on claiming.
Oh, distant relative, we will never speak to
each other
a single kind word. And yet, in this world, it is
no small thing to sparkle.
2.
The kingfisher hurrahs from a branch
above the river.
Under its feet is a fish that will swim
no more,
that also has its story, for another time
perhaps.
Now it’s the bird’s, pounding the fish then
hulking it down its open beak,
glad in its winning and not at all trammeled
by thought.
I keep trying to put this poem together.
Meanwhile
the bird is again gazing into the glaze
of this running food-bin. Thought does not
create the soul, not entirely, but it
plays its part.
Meanwhile the bird is flashy body and the fish
was flashy body and each
fulfills what it is, remembers little
and imagines less.
And thus the day passes into darkness
undamaged.
The fish, slippery and delicious.
The kingfisher, so quick, so blue.
3.
The authors of history are among us still.
And believe me they believe what they believe
as sincerely as the millions who are simply
looking for a life, a purpose.
Who are the good people? We are all good people
except when we are not. Meanwhile the forests
are felled, the oceans rise, storms
give off the appearance of anger. Who
despises us and for what reasons? Whom do we
despise and for what reasons? Once there was a garden
and we were sent forth from it, possibly forever.
Possibly not, possibly there is no forever.
“What’s on your mind?” we say to each other.
As though it’s some kind of weight.
4.
This morning what I am thinking of is circles:
the sun, the earth, the moon;
the life of each of us that begins then returns
to our home, the circular world,
even as in our cleverness we have invented
invention—the straight line
nothing like a leaf, or a lake or the moon
but simply, perilously
getting by on our wits from here to there.
Einstein chalks slowly across the blackboard,
erases, writes again. Mozart flings
his fluttering notes onto the rigid staff.
The drones fly straight to any target. This morning
what I am thinking about is circles
and the straight lines that rule us
while earth abides in all sorts of splendors,
knowing its limitations. The light
of every morning curls forth,
oh beautifully, then circles toward the dark.
Obama works, prays, then grabs his scrim of sleep.
Trying to Be Thoughtful in the First Brights
of Dawn
I am thinking, or trying to think, about all the
imponderables for which we have
no answers, yet endless interest all the
range of our lives, and it’s
good for the head no doubt to undertake such
meditation; Mystery, after all,
is God’s other name, and deserves our
considerations surely. But, but—
excuse me now, please; it’s morning, heavenly bright,
and my irrepressible heart begs me to hurry on
into the next exquisite moment.
More Evidence
1.
The grosbeak sings with a completely cherishable
roughness.
The yellow and orange and scarlet trees—what do
they denote but willingness, and the flamboyance
of change?
With what words can I convince you of the
casualness with which the white swans fly?
It doesn’t matter to me if the woodchuck and
the turtle are not always, and thoughtfully,
considering their lives and making decisions,
the certainty that they are doing this at all—
that alters
1.
There appeared a darkly sparkling thing
hardly
bigger than a pin, that all afternoon
seemed
to want my company. It did me no hurt but
wandered
my shirt, my sleeve-cuff, my wrist.
Finally it opened its sheets of chitin and
flew away.
Linnaeus probably had given it a name, which I
didn’t know. All I could say was: Look
what’s come from its home of dirt and dust
and duff, its
cinch of instinct. What does music, I wondered,
mean to it?
What the distant horizons? Still, no doubt have I
that it has some purpose, as we all have
some purpose which, though none of us
knows what it is, we each go on claiming.
Oh, distant relative, we will never speak to
each other
a single kind word. And yet, in this world, it is
no small thing to sparkle.
2.
The kingfisher hurrahs from a branch
above the river.
Under its feet is a fish that will swim
no more,
that also has its story, for another time
perhaps.
Now it’s the bird’s, pounding the fish then
hulking it down its open beak,
glad in its winning and not at all trammeled
by thought.
I keep trying to put this poem together.
Meanwhile
the bird is again gazing into the glaze
of this running food-bin. Thought does not
create the soul, not entirely, but it
plays its part.
Meanwhile the bird is flashy body and the fish
was flashy body and each
fulfills what it is, remembers little
and imagines less.
And thus the day passes into darkness
undamaged.
The fish, slippery and delicious.
The kingfisher, so quick, so blue.
3.
The authors of history are among us still.
And believe me they believe what they believe
as sincerely as the millions who are simply
looking for a life, a purpose.
Who are the good people? We are all good people
except when we are not. Meanwhile the forests
are felled, the oceans rise, storms
give off the appearance of anger. Who
despises us and for what reasons? Whom do we
despise and for what reasons? Once there was a garden
and we were sent forth from it, possibly forever.
Possibly not, possibly there is no forever.
“What’s on your mind?” we say to each other.
As though it’s some kind of weight.
4.
This morning what I am thinking of is circles:
the sun, the earth, the moon;
the life of each of us that begins then returns
to our home, the circular world,
even as in our cleverness we have invented
invention—the straight line
nothing like a leaf, or a lake or the moon
but simply, perilously
getting by on our wits from here to there.
Einstein chalks slowly across the blackboard,
erases, writes again. Mozart flings
his fluttering notes onto the rigid staff.
The drones fly straight to any target. This morning
what I am thinking about is circles
and the straight lines that rule us
while earth abides in all sorts of splendors,
knowing its limitations. The light
of every morning curls forth,
oh beautifully, then circles toward the dark.
Obama works, prays, then grabs his scrim of sleep.
Trying to Be Thoughtful in the First Brights
of Dawn
I am thinking, or trying to think, about all the
imponderables for which we have
no answers, yet endless interest all the
range of our lives, and it’s
good for the head no doubt to undertake such
meditation; Mystery, after all,
is God’s other name, and deserves our
considerations surely. But, but—
excuse me now, please; it’s morning, heavenly bright,
and my irrepressible heart begs me to hurry on
into the next exquisite moment.
More Evidence
1.
The grosbeak sings with a completely cherishable
roughness.
The yellow and orange and scarlet trees—what do
they denote but willingness, and the flamboyance
of change?
With what words can I convince you of the
casualness with which the white swans fly?
It doesn’t matter to me if the woodchuck and
the turtle are not always, and thoughtfully,
considering their lives and making decisions,
the certainty that they are doing this at all—
that alters
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