Is it winter again, is it cold again, didn't Frank just slip on the ice, didn't he heal, weren't the spring seeds planted
didn't the night end, didn't the melting ice flood the narrow gutters
wasn't my body rescued, wasn't it safe
didn't the scar form, invisible above the injury
terror and cold, didn't they just end, wasn't the back garden harrowed and planted—
I remember how the earth felt, red and dense, in stiff rows, weren't the seeds planted, didn't vines climb the south wall
I can't hear your voice for the wind's cries, whistling over the bare ground
I no longer care what sound it makes
when was I silenced, when did it first seem pointless to describe that sound
what it sounds like can't change what it is—
didn't the night end, wasn't the earth safe when it was planted
didn't we plant the seeds, weren't we necessary to the earth,
the vines, were they harvested?
2.
Summer after summer has ended, balm after violence: it does me no good to be good to me now; violence has changed me.
Daybreak. The low hills shine ochre and fire, even the fields shine. I know what I see; sun that could be the August sun, returning everything that was taken away—
You hear this voice? This is my mind’s voice; you can’t touch my body now. It has changed once, it has hardened, don’t ask it to respond again.
A day like a day in summer. Exceptionally still. The long shadows of the maples nearly mauve on the gravel paths. And in the evening, warmth. Night like a night in summer.
It does me no good; violence has changed me. My body has grown cold like the stripped fields; now there is only my mind, cautious and wary, with the sense it is being tested.
Once more, the sun rises as it rose in summer; bounty, balm after violence. Balm after the leaves have changed, after the fields have been harvested and turned.
Tell me this is the future, I won’t believe you. Tell me I’m living, I won’t believe you.
3.
Snow had fallen. I remember music from an open window.
Come to me, said the world. This is not to say it spoke in exact sentences but that I perceived beauty in this manner.
Sunrise. A film of moisture on each living thing. Pools of cold light formed in the gutters.
I stood at the doorway, ridiculous as it now seems.
What others found in art, I found in nature. What others found in human love, I found in nature. Very simple. But there was no voice there.
Winter was over. In the thawed dirt, bits of green were showing.
Come to me, said the world. I was standing in my wool coat at a kind of bright portal— I can finally say long ago; it gives me considerable pleasure. Beauty the healer, the teacher—
death cannot harm me more than you have harmed me, my beloved life.
4.
The light has changed; middle C is tuned darker now. And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed.
This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring. The light of autumn: you will not be spared.
The songs have changed; the unspeakable has entered them.
This is the light of autumn, not the light that says I am reborn.
Not the spring dawn: I strained, I suffered, I was delivered. This is the present, an allegory of waste.
So much has changed. And still, you are fortunate: the ideal burns in you like a fever. Or not like a fever, like a second heart.
The songs have changed, but really they are still quite beautiful. They have been concentrated in a smaller space, the space of the mind. They are dark, now, with desolation and anguish.
And yet the notes recur. They hover oddly in anticipation of silence. The ear gets used to them. The eye gets used to disappearances.
You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.
A wind has come and gone, taking apart the mind; it has left in its wake a strange lucidity.
How privileged you are, to be passionately clinging to what you love; the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.
Maestoso, doloroso:
This is the light of autumn; it has turned on us. Surely it is a privilege to approach the end still believing in something.
5.
It is true there is not enough beauty in the world. It is also true that I am not competent to restore it. Neither is there candor, and here I may be of some use.
I am at work, though I am silent.
The bland
misery of the world bounds us on either side, an alley
lined with trees; we are
companions here, not speaking, each with his own thoughts;
behind the trees, iron gates of the private houses, the shuttered rooms
somehow deserted, abandoned,
as though it were the artist’s duty to create hope, but out of what? what?
the word itself false, a device to refute perception— At the intersection,
ornamental lights of the season.
I was young here. Riding the subway with my small book as though to defend myself against
the same world:
you are not alone, the poem said, in the dark tunnel.
6.
The brightness of the day becomes the brightness of the night; the fire becomes the mirror.
My friend the earth is bitter; I think sunlight has failed her. Bitter or weary, it is hard to say.
Between herself and the sun, something has ended. She wants, now, to be left alone; I think we must give up turning to her for affirmation.
Above the fields, above the roofs of the village houses, the brilliance that made all life possible becomes the cold stars.
Lie still and watch: they give nothing but ask nothing.
From within the earth’s bitter disgrace, coldness and barrenness
my friend the moon rises: she is beautiful tonight, but when is she not beautiful?
Fiona Sampson discusses recently published poetry collections, including work by Jorie Graham, Sean O’Brien, Timothy Donnelly, and Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o. She writes of the last, "It’s a beautiful work of integration that not only refuses distinctions between 'high art' and traditional storytelling, but supplies that all-too rare human necessity: the sense that life has meaning."
Poetry Daily stands with the Black community. We oppose racism, oppression, and police brutality. We will continue to amplify diverse voices in the poetry world. Black Lives Matter.
“I remember telling my students give me a minute I have to write something down, and though I say 'the words just came' the language itself felt almost intrusive, like a clumsy adaptation of a finer, more efficient form of communication—and yet, the pressure to inscribe was compelling. It was like passively receiving something and also being able to physically make something at the same time."
