Good Morning/Love and Poetry.
Dec. 24th, 2005 09:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greenstormI'm beginning to like Merwin.
Listen by W.S Merwin
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster and faster then the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
There's rain on the windows. It's a quiet tapping sound. The air is a pale grey with rainy morning light. Today I go to Kelowna for an overnight, to meet the boy's parents, then I come back down to have boxing day breakfast with my friends and family. I'll get to see Ellen (it's been so long!) and Tillie and Juggler and other people whose RSVPs I'm not yet aware of since Tillie's dealing with that. I'm looking forward to this.
I'm reading again. I'm reading Snow Crash. It's been over a month since I could read through a whole book-- remarkable for me. Books, reading, are like a hit of some drug for me. A few lines bring instant safety and reassurance and calm. A whole book-- that feels remarkable. Cocooning.
I want to say something about love, here. My brow furrows up, though, when I think about it, and words fail me. This keyboard feels like I'm playing music on it, not tearing through words as I used to.
There's a deep failure of the language here. I want to say: we both like the same foods. I want to say: I feel partnered again, in it with someone in a way that raises echoes. I want to say: this feels sike intimacy, but between two people with their own two feet. I want to say: the other night we wandered randomly down the street on a whim and stopped at a strange restaurant that was wonderful and that sort of magic has been fantasized about for years in there, up there, but has never happened to me. I want to say: our facial expressions bounce off each other.
None of those is what I want to say.
There's some sort of 'chemistry' between people that is not love, nor is it a sexual spark. It's not a leaning into someone either, not (as I have done before) folding into them and accepting their decisions in lieu of making your own. I have that with Graham.
I also, distinct from this pairing feeling, have a lot of love in my life. Juggler has been like a cradle lately, but also like a friend. Ironically, it takes me a long time to make real friends, and this feels like something significant in our relationship. All this other stuff is deep and wonderful, yes, but my friends/family are the roots of the thing, the outside edges of my soul.
Oh, I can't say any of it today! The words are too slow and heavy and insubstantial. Have a wonderful Christmas, and be well.
This Room And Everything In It
Lie still now
while I prepare for my future,
certain hard days ahead,
when I'll need what I know so clearly this moment.
I am making use
of the one thing I learned
of all the things my father tried to teach me:
the art of memory.
I am letting this room
and everything in it
stand for my ideas about love
and its difficulties.
I'll let your love-cries,
those spacious notes
of a moment ago,
stand for distance.
Your scent,
that scent
of spice and a wound,
I'll let stand for mystery.
Your sunken belly
is the daily cup
of milk I drank
as a boy before morning prayer.
The sun on the face
of the wall
is God, the face
I can't see, my soul,
and so on, each thing
standing for a separate idea,
and those ideas forming the constellation
of my greater idea.
And one day, when I need
to tell myself something intelligent
about love,
I'll close my eyes
and recall this room and everything in it:
My body is estrangement.
This desire, perfection.
Your closed eyes my extinction.
Now I've forgotten my
idea. The book
on the windowsill, riffled by wind...
the even-numbered pages are
the past, the odd-
numbered pages, the future.
The sun is
God, your body is milk...
useless, useless...
your cries are song, my body's not me...
no good ... my idea
has evaporated...your hair is time, your thighs are song...
it had something to do
with death...it had something
to do with love.
Li-Young Lee
Listen by W.S Merwin
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster and faster then the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
There's rain on the windows. It's a quiet tapping sound. The air is a pale grey with rainy morning light. Today I go to Kelowna for an overnight, to meet the boy's parents, then I come back down to have boxing day breakfast with my friends and family. I'll get to see Ellen (it's been so long!) and Tillie and Juggler and other people whose RSVPs I'm not yet aware of since Tillie's dealing with that. I'm looking forward to this.
I'm reading again. I'm reading Snow Crash. It's been over a month since I could read through a whole book-- remarkable for me. Books, reading, are like a hit of some drug for me. A few lines bring instant safety and reassurance and calm. A whole book-- that feels remarkable. Cocooning.
I want to say something about love, here. My brow furrows up, though, when I think about it, and words fail me. This keyboard feels like I'm playing music on it, not tearing through words as I used to.
There's a deep failure of the language here. I want to say: we both like the same foods. I want to say: I feel partnered again, in it with someone in a way that raises echoes. I want to say: this feels sike intimacy, but between two people with their own two feet. I want to say: the other night we wandered randomly down the street on a whim and stopped at a strange restaurant that was wonderful and that sort of magic has been fantasized about for years in there, up there, but has never happened to me. I want to say: our facial expressions bounce off each other.
None of those is what I want to say.
There's some sort of 'chemistry' between people that is not love, nor is it a sexual spark. It's not a leaning into someone either, not (as I have done before) folding into them and accepting their decisions in lieu of making your own. I have that with Graham.
I also, distinct from this pairing feeling, have a lot of love in my life. Juggler has been like a cradle lately, but also like a friend. Ironically, it takes me a long time to make real friends, and this feels like something significant in our relationship. All this other stuff is deep and wonderful, yes, but my friends/family are the roots of the thing, the outside edges of my soul.
Oh, I can't say any of it today! The words are too slow and heavy and insubstantial. Have a wonderful Christmas, and be well.
This Room And Everything In It
Lie still now
while I prepare for my future,
certain hard days ahead,
when I'll need what I know so clearly this moment.
I am making use
of the one thing I learned
of all the things my father tried to teach me:
the art of memory.
I am letting this room
and everything in it
stand for my ideas about love
and its difficulties.
I'll let your love-cries,
those spacious notes
of a moment ago,
stand for distance.
Your scent,
that scent
of spice and a wound,
I'll let stand for mystery.
Your sunken belly
is the daily cup
of milk I drank
as a boy before morning prayer.
The sun on the face
of the wall
is God, the face
I can't see, my soul,
and so on, each thing
standing for a separate idea,
and those ideas forming the constellation
of my greater idea.
And one day, when I need
to tell myself something intelligent
about love,
I'll close my eyes
and recall this room and everything in it:
My body is estrangement.
This desire, perfection.
Your closed eyes my extinction.
Now I've forgotten my
idea. The book
on the windowsill, riffled by wind...
the even-numbered pages are
the past, the odd-
numbered pages, the future.
The sun is
God, your body is milk...
useless, useless...
your cries are song, my body's not me...
no good ... my idea
has evaporated...your hair is time, your thighs are song...
it had something to do
with death...it had something
to do with love.
Li-Young Lee
