Nearer the Truth (by Steven Reese)
NEARER THE TRUTH
Perhaps I will say, The day has broken,
or, The morning has come, as if
it were merely a matter of sitting here,
waiting for colors to make their first faint
pronouncements -
when I know it's not like that, when it's
nearer the truth to say I've stepped out
to meet it as I always do, mute, barefoot,
and tuning the strings of my attention;
when I, too, have broken, have risen
from the dark and found a horizon; I, too,
have turned toward the light like a planet.
That's a mystery, I might say, as if
the thing doesn't make its own perfect sense,
doesn't follow a native logic of neuron
or simple survival -
when I know that's not true; when it's only
my parting the branches with my question
or sifting the usual dust when this
gold appears; when all I'm saying is
I don't know, and any microscope or dog
could nose-out the plain truth.
If I say of my father that he has passed,
it is always away, as if distance
or a new wall were the only truth, now -
when I know that's not how it is at all;
when he goes ahead and I follow,
admiring, same as ever, only now
he's taken that huge stride straight into
the center of me, into a space there
I thought I'd made ready but got wrong.
He's passed into, not away; to follow
means seeing myself new, same as ever.
So, I will say, I have spoken my mind -
when I know that's not the half of it;
when really I've spoken the cerebellum's
music and balance, the reptilian brain's
flickering tongue; spoken my comings-from
and arrivals, my failures to arrive;
spoken my poured-over pages, my body's
changes, my question after question;
spoken this earth I travel, lovingly, even
that arm's-length shaft dug out of it
into which I have handed down ashes.
-- Steven Reese
(from breathe-poetry)
Perhaps I will say, The day has broken,
or, The morning has come, as if
it were merely a matter of sitting here,
waiting for colors to make their first faint
pronouncements -
when I know it's not like that, when it's
nearer the truth to say I've stepped out
to meet it as I always do, mute, barefoot,
and tuning the strings of my attention;
when I, too, have broken, have risen
from the dark and found a horizon; I, too,
have turned toward the light like a planet.
That's a mystery, I might say, as if
the thing doesn't make its own perfect sense,
doesn't follow a native logic of neuron
or simple survival -
when I know that's not true; when it's only
my parting the branches with my question
or sifting the usual dust when this
gold appears; when all I'm saying is
I don't know, and any microscope or dog
could nose-out the plain truth.
If I say of my father that he has passed,
it is always away, as if distance
or a new wall were the only truth, now -
when I know that's not how it is at all;
when he goes ahead and I follow,
admiring, same as ever, only now
he's taken that huge stride straight into
the center of me, into a space there
I thought I'd made ready but got wrong.
He's passed into, not away; to follow
means seeing myself new, same as ever.
So, I will say, I have spoken my mind -
when I know that's not the half of it;
when really I've spoken the cerebellum's
music and balance, the reptilian brain's
flickering tongue; spoken my comings-from
and arrivals, my failures to arrive;
spoken my poured-over pages, my body's
changes, my question after question;
spoken this earth I travel, lovingly, even
that arm's-length shaft dug out of it
into which I have handed down ashes.
-- Steven Reese
(from breathe-poetry)