eventually even hunger can become a space to live in
Today's poem:
Civilization
by Carl Phillips
There's an art
to everything. How
the rain means
April and an ongoing-ness like
that of song until at last
it ends. A centuries-old
set of silver handbells that
once an altar boy swung,
processing . . . You're the same
wilderness you've always
been, slashing through briars,
the bracken
of your invasive
self. So he said,
in a dream. But
the rest of it-all the rest-
was waking: more often
than not, to the next
extravagance. Two blackamoor
statues, each mirroring
the other, each hoisting
forever upward his burden of
hand-painted, carved-by-hand
peacock feathers. Don't
you know it, don't you know
I love you, he said. He was
shaking. He said,
I love you. There's an art
to everything. What I've
done with this life,
what I'd meant not to do,
or would have meant, maybe, had I
understood, though I have
no regrets. Not the broken but
still flowering dogwood. Not
the honey locust, either. Not even
the ghost walnut with its
non-branches whose
every shadow is memory,
memory . . . As he said to me
once, That's all garbage
down the river, now. Turning,
but as the utterly lost-
because addicted-do:
resigned all over again. It
only looked, it-
It must only look
like leaving. There's an art
to everything. Even
turning away. How
eventually even hunger
can become a space
to live in. How they made
out of shamelessness something
beautiful, for as long as they could.
***
For some reason, Pinboard savior has stopped working. I find this distressing, and it means I might have to start unsubscribing to people, which is unfortunate. Does anyone know if there's a fix out there? Googling didn't get me anywhere.
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/738512.html.
people have commented there.
Civilization
by Carl Phillips
There's an art
to everything. How
the rain means
April and an ongoing-ness like
that of song until at last
it ends. A centuries-old
set of silver handbells that
once an altar boy swung,
processing . . . You're the same
wilderness you've always
been, slashing through briars,
the bracken
of your invasive
self. So he said,
in a dream. But
the rest of it-all the rest-
was waking: more often
than not, to the next
extravagance. Two blackamoor
statues, each mirroring
the other, each hoisting
forever upward his burden of
hand-painted, carved-by-hand
peacock feathers. Don't
you know it, don't you know
I love you, he said. He was
shaking. He said,
I love you. There's an art
to everything. What I've
done with this life,
what I'd meant not to do,
or would have meant, maybe, had I
understood, though I have
no regrets. Not the broken but
still flowering dogwood. Not
the honey locust, either. Not even
the ghost walnut with its
non-branches whose
every shadow is memory,
memory . . . As he said to me
once, That's all garbage
down the river, now. Turning,
but as the utterly lost-
because addicted-do:
resigned all over again. It
only looked, it-
It must only look
like leaving. There's an art
to everything. Even
turning away. How
eventually even hunger
can become a space
to live in. How they made
out of shamelessness something
beautiful, for as long as they could.
***
For some reason, Pinboard savior has stopped working. I find this distressing, and it means I might have to start unsubscribing to people, which is unfortunate. Does anyone know if there's a fix out there? Googling didn't get me anywhere.
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/738512.html.
people have commented there.