National Poetry Month
Ack! How was it that I missed this memo? Well, I will beg the Muse's forgiveness and point to the 80" long shelf in the large guest room that is entirely full of poetry and poetics -- the first time in my entire life all those books have been together in one room, in one house, in one place. It was wonderful to greet them, to sense them greeting each other.
And, in an act of shameless hubris, I will post a villanelle I wrote a in, um, 1987 [maybe?] in a dark hour. Have seen darker hours since then, and felt this phenomenon more than once: just when you want to give up, some little thing comes flickering up out of the darkness and catches your attention for just long enough that morning comes and you are still in the world.
Kept Awake by a Villanelle
This dark is warm, I do not wait for sleep;
I want to catch the coda of my dream.
I need its words: the silence here is deep.
Like the tattered calls of winter-weary sheep
or the scattered tracks of deer beside a stream,
I hunt these words; the path they take is steep.
Round forms that grow in caves where water seeps
and fragile, sightless, darkness-drinkers team,
the words I need are hidden well and deep.
I have found the hollow hill and made my leap.
I lie still while echoes of my landing ream
a tunnel through the night toward words to reap.
I sift each sound and find the ones to keep
to fasten up the night without a seam;
I gather all these words into a heap,
then turn and start my journey home to sleep.
I want to catch the coda of my dream.
The dark is warm, I do not wait for sleep.
I need no words: the silence here is deep.
And, in an act of shameless hubris, I will post a villanelle I wrote a in, um, 1987 [maybe?] in a dark hour. Have seen darker hours since then, and felt this phenomenon more than once: just when you want to give up, some little thing comes flickering up out of the darkness and catches your attention for just long enough that morning comes and you are still in the world.
Kept Awake by a Villanelle
This dark is warm, I do not wait for sleep;
I want to catch the coda of my dream.
I need its words: the silence here is deep.
Like the tattered calls of winter-weary sheep
or the scattered tracks of deer beside a stream,
I hunt these words; the path they take is steep.
Round forms that grow in caves where water seeps
and fragile, sightless, darkness-drinkers team,
the words I need are hidden well and deep.
I have found the hollow hill and made my leap.
I lie still while echoes of my landing ream
a tunnel through the night toward words to reap.
I sift each sound and find the ones to keep
to fasten up the night without a seam;
I gather all these words into a heap,
then turn and start my journey home to sleep.
I want to catch the coda of my dream.
The dark is warm, I do not wait for sleep.
I need no words: the silence here is deep.