flahute

TO PURITY

I have heard so much about you

the way I see
the white light from
the beginning
through the colors of the garden
through a face an eye

  — W.S. Merwin (b. 1927), American poet and translator.

DEBT

That ‘part
Of consciousness
That works’:

Among the pin ups, notices, conversion charts,
And skills, so little said of it

  — George Oppen (1908 – 1984), Pulitzer Prize winning American poet.

Once again, it’s that time of year … time to sit back and reflect on all that I am thankful for.

1. Work continues to chug along. The bet that I made that our stock would rebound last fall has paid off nicely … I lowered my average cost significantly, and my portfolio is above water once again.
2. I met and dated a fabulous woman for a few months this past summer, and while it didn’t work out, I learned a lot about myself and how to handle myself in a relationship.
3. I rediscovered much of my love for the bicycle, and while my mileage still isn’t where it was several years ago, I doubled my 2008 mileage, and am looking forward to spending some quality time on the bike over Christmas down in Arizona
4. The Trooper is still chugging along, after a starter and clutch replacement for way too much money, but it should get me through another year or two before it dies completely
5. And yet again, last but certainly not least, I have good friends, both old and new, who all seem to genuinely care in one way or another.

Thank you Mom & Ralph, Ben & Doris, Geraly & D.J., Art & Rachel, Richard, Matt, Scottie, Carol, Jon & Ellie, Sly, Shauna, Jennie & Joel, Darrell & Theresa (whom I feel are rapidly becoming family), Marit & Dayna (who each, in their own way, helped me to realize and change some things about myself), Heather & Gigi (both of whose constant smiles remind me that life is to be enjoyed), and most especially, thank you Hayley, for allowing me to love again, if only for a little while.

THANKS  

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges 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 thanking it
smiling by the windows looking out
in our 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

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 door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
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 than 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
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

  — W.S. Merwin (b. 1927), American poet and translator.

COMING TO THE MORNING

You make me remember all of the elements
the sea remembering all of its waves

in each of the waves there was always a sky made of water
and an eye that looked once

there was the shape of one mountain
and a blood kinship with rain

and the air for touch and for the tongue
at the speed of light

in which the world is made
from a single star

and our ears
are formed of the sea as we listen

  — W.S. Merwin (b. 1927), American poet and translator.

TO MYSELF

Even when I forget you
I go on looking for you
I believe I would know you
I keep remembering you
sometimes long ago but then
other times I am sure you
were here a moment before
and the air is still alive
around where you were and I
think then I can recognize
you who are always the same
who pretend to be time but
you are not time and who speak
in the words but you are not
what they say you who are not
lost when I do not find you.

TO THE HAPPY FEW

Do you know who you are

O you forever listed
under some other heading
when you are listed at all

you whose addresses
when you have them
are never sold except
for another reason
something else that is
supposed to identify you

who carry no card
stating that you are —
what would it say you were
to someone turning it over
looking perhaps for
a date or for
anything to go buy

you with no secret handshake
no proof of membership
o way to prove such a thing
even to yourselves

you without a word
of explanation
and only yourselves
as evidence.

  — W.S. Merwin (b. 1927), American poet and translator.

SUMMITS

Mountains bloom in spring they shine in summer
they burn in autumn
but they belong to winter
every day we travel farther and at evening
we come to the same country
mountains are waiting but is it for us
all day the night was shining through them
and many of the birds were theirs

DECEMBER NIGHT

The cold slope is standing in darkness
But the south of the trees is dry to the touch

The heavy limbs climb into the moonlight bearing feathers
I came to watch these
White plants older at night
The oldest
Come first to the ruins

And I hear magpies kept awake by the moon
The water flows through its
Own fingers without end
Tonight once more
I find a single prayer and it is not for men

  — Both poems by W.S. Merwin (b. 1927), American poet, Pulitzer Prize winner

TO THE LIGHT OF SEPTEMBER

When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not

and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
shadows across the cracked ground

but they all know
that you have come
the seed heads of the sage
the whispering birds
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later

you
who fly with them

you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with blue plums
that have fallen through the night

perfect in the dew

                    September 10, 2001

  — W.S. Merwin (b. 1927), American poet, Pulitzer Prize winner

TO THE PRESENT TENSE

By the time you are
by the time you come to be
by the time you read this
by the time you are written
by the time you forget
by the time you are water through fingers
by the time you are taken for granted
by the time it hurts
by the time it goes on hurting
by the time there are no words for you
by the time you remember
but without the names
by the time you are in the papers
and on the telephone
passing unnoticed there too

who is it
to whom you come
before whose very eyes
you are disappearing
without making yourself known

  — W.S. Merwin (b. 1927), American poet, Pulitzer Prize winner