Try being sick for a year,
then having that year turn into two,
until the memory of your health is like an island
going out of sight behind you
and you sail on in twilight.
with the sound of waves.
It's not a dream. You pass
through waiting rooms and clinics
until the very sky seems pharmaceutical,
and the faces of the doctors are your stars
whose smile or frown
means to hurry and get well
or die.
And because illness feels like punishment,
an enormous effort to be good
comes out of you--
like the good behavior of a child
desperate to appease
the invisible parents of this world.
And when that fails,
there is an orb of anger
rising like the sun above
the mind afraid of death,
and then a lake of grief, staining everything below,
and then a holding action of neurotic vigilance
and then a recitation of the history
of second chances.
And the illusions keep on coming.
and fading out, and coming on again
while your skin turns yellow from the medicine.
your ankles swell like dough above your shoes,
and you stop wanting to make love
because there is no love in you,
only a desire to be done.
But you're not done.
Your bags are packed
and you are travelling.
--Tony Hoagland here
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Second Nature
I must be enjoying my sixth of seventh life by now,
watching the orange, early morning sun
gleam thickly through the fabric of an evergreen
as the smoke churns dark and sap-like up,
then wafts away from the chimneyspout.
In the past , when I heard people talk about
how a place becomes a part of you,
I always thought that they were being metaphorical,
but right now I can feel this orange and tender light
taking a position inside of me--
painting a stripe of phosphorescent,
pumpkin-colored warmth along one wall
of the inside of my skull. I can feel
the washed-out scarlet of these winter fields
becoming an ingredient
of my personality,
the way that in the noisy urban center
of every molecule of chlorophyll,
one atom of magnesium resides,
as quiet and essential as a church.
Seated in appreciation of this calm,
in the easy chair of my appreciation,
I have a view of what has brought me here--
not just the landscapes I’ve survived,
not just the blind motion of the waves,
but what I grasped and made a part of what I am--
a second nature, scavenged from those things
I chose to love or fear.
There was a sycamore in Arizona I cared
enough about to take into my heart, and now
I hear the wind moving through its branches
just below my clavicle. There was a kiss
that changed the history of my mouth--kiss
that was a courtship, marriage and divorce
sandwiched in the thirty-second intersection
of her lips and mine. When I look
at all the odds and ends I’m made of,
I think some kind of
irrationally-proportioned
Frankenstein,
on pilgrimage to god knows where,
humming a song as he lumbers through the forest
of the middle of his life.
His left eye still remembers
a sunset that it saw in 1964; his right
beholds the snow upon a branch
with so much childish love
it threatens continually to break
the rockpile of his heart.
But he keeps going on,
half-thrilled and half-appalled
by his own strangeness--wondering what god
he could be fashioned in the image of?
What handiwork of what mad scientist?
--Tony Hoagland here
watching the orange, early morning sun
gleam thickly through the fabric of an evergreen
as the smoke churns dark and sap-like up,
then wafts away from the chimneyspout.
In the past , when I heard people talk about
how a place becomes a part of you,
I always thought that they were being metaphorical,
but right now I can feel this orange and tender light
taking a position inside of me--
painting a stripe of phosphorescent,
pumpkin-colored warmth along one wall
of the inside of my skull. I can feel
the washed-out scarlet of these winter fields
becoming an ingredient
of my personality,
the way that in the noisy urban center
of every molecule of chlorophyll,
one atom of magnesium resides,
as quiet and essential as a church.
Seated in appreciation of this calm,
in the easy chair of my appreciation,
I have a view of what has brought me here--
not just the landscapes I’ve survived,
not just the blind motion of the waves,
but what I grasped and made a part of what I am--
a second nature, scavenged from those things
I chose to love or fear.
There was a sycamore in Arizona I cared
enough about to take into my heart, and now
I hear the wind moving through its branches
just below my clavicle. There was a kiss
that changed the history of my mouth--kiss
that was a courtship, marriage and divorce
sandwiched in the thirty-second intersection
of her lips and mine. When I look
at all the odds and ends I’m made of,
I think some kind of
irrationally-proportioned
Frankenstein,
on pilgrimage to god knows where,
humming a song as he lumbers through the forest
of the middle of his life.
His left eye still remembers
a sunset that it saw in 1964; his right
beholds the snow upon a branch
with so much childish love
it threatens continually to break
the rockpile of his heart.
But he keeps going on,
half-thrilled and half-appalled
by his own strangeness--wondering what god
he could be fashioned in the image of?
What handiwork of what mad scientist?
--Tony Hoagland here
Oh Mercy
Only the billionth person
to glance up at the moon tonight
which looks bald, high-browed and professorial to me,
the kind of face I always shook my fist at
when I was seventeen
and every stopsign was a figure of authority
that had it in for me
and every bottle of cold beer
had a little picture of my father on the label
for smashing down in parking lots
at 2 AM, when things devolved
into the dance of who was craziest.
That year, if we could have reached the moon,
if we could have shoplifted the paint and telescoping ladders,
we would have scribbled FUCK YOU
on its massive yellow cheek,
thrilled about the opportunity
to offend three billion people
in a single night.
But the moon stayed out of reach,
imperturbable, polite.
It kept on varnishing the seas,
overseeing the development of grapes in Italy,
putting the midwest to bed
in white pajamas.
It's seen my kind
a million times before
upon this parapet of loneliness and fear
and how we come around in time
to lifting up our heads,
looking for the kindness
that would make revenge unnecessary.
--Tony Hoagland* here (Isn't that a great cover?)
*TH is totally my current fav poet.
to glance up at the moon tonight
which looks bald, high-browed and professorial to me,
the kind of face I always shook my fist at
when I was seventeen
and every stopsign was a figure of authority
that had it in for me
and every bottle of cold beer
had a little picture of my father on the label
for smashing down in parking lots
at 2 AM, when things devolved
into the dance of who was craziest.
That year, if we could have reached the moon,
if we could have shoplifted the paint and telescoping ladders,
we would have scribbled FUCK YOU
on its massive yellow cheek,
thrilled about the opportunity
to offend three billion people
in a single night.
But the moon stayed out of reach,
imperturbable, polite.
It kept on varnishing the seas,
overseeing the development of grapes in Italy,
putting the midwest to bed
in white pajamas.
It's seen my kind
a million times before
upon this parapet of loneliness and fear
and how we come around in time
to lifting up our heads,
looking for the kindness
that would make revenge unnecessary.
--Tony Hoagland* here (Isn't that a great cover?)
*TH is totally my current fav poet.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Reluctance
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
--Robert Frost here
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
--Robert Frost here
The Word
Down near the bottom
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,
between "green thread"
and "broccoli," you find
that you have penciled "sunlight."
Resting on the page, the word
is beautiful. It touches you
as if you had a friend
and sunlight were a present
he had sent from someplace distant
as this morning--to cheer you up,
and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing
that also needs accomplishing.
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds
of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder
or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue,
but today you get a telegram
from the heart in exile,
proclaiming that the kingdom
still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,
--to any one among them
who can find the time
to sit out in the sun and listen.
--Tony Hoagland* here
*God I love this poet.
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,
between "green thread"
and "broccoli," you find
that you have penciled "sunlight."
Resting on the page, the word
is beautiful. It touches you
as if you had a friend
and sunlight were a present
he had sent from someplace distant
as this morning--to cheer you up,
and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing
that also needs accomplishing.
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds
of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder
or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue,
but today you get a telegram
from the heart in exile,
proclaiming that the kingdom
still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,
--to any one among them
who can find the time
to sit out in the sun and listen.
--Tony Hoagland* here
*God I love this poet.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
The Sun = source of infinitely quotable quotes
"We've arranged a global civilization in which most crucial elements ... profoundly depend on science and technology. We have also arranged things so that almost no one understands science and technology. This is a prescription for disaster. We might get away with it for a while, but sooner or later this combustible mixture of ignorance and power is going to blow up in our faces." --Carl Sagan
"The notion of saving the planet has nothing to do with intellectual honesty or science. The fact is that the planet was here long before us and will be here long after us. The planet is running fine. What people are talking about is saving themselves and saving their cash flow." --Lynn Margulis
"It may be necessary temporarily to accept a lesser evil, but one must never label a necessary evil as good." --Margaret Mead
"God isn't interested in technology. He cares nothing for the microchip or the silicon revolution. Look how he spends his time: Forty-three species of parrots! Nipples for men!" --Evil, in the movie Time Bandits
"The notion of saving the planet has nothing to do with intellectual honesty or science. The fact is that the planet was here long before us and will be here long after us. The planet is running fine. What people are talking about is saving themselves and saving their cash flow." --Lynn Margulis
"It may be necessary temporarily to accept a lesser evil, but one must never label a necessary evil as good." --Margaret Mead
"God isn't interested in technology. He cares nothing for the microchip or the silicon revolution. Look how he spends his time: Forty-three species of parrots! Nipples for men!" --Evil, in the movie Time Bandits
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