Poetry

Poetry

Horatian salutation

Reader, here is no know-nothing
muddle-mouth grinning till his time’s up,
       nor this month’s charismatic hotshot—
                 let’s be glad for that.
Nor is it time for deeper, troubled things,
     the heaviness of swollen hands
that knit our sweaters or underfed
teenagers who look like my six year old,
sweet in his warm bed.
                               Shall I go on, then, or end it?

It’s not even an occasion for lyrical
greatness (who can bear or hear it?), or honoring
the slain and scars of veterans
                (how to sustain it?) or excursions
on hermeneutical wings along the Word.
Or less estimable, more complicated forms
                                            of happiness:
breathless days when we became better
                 than ourselves,
                                as if awaking from a dream.

Let other songs bless or curse with big decibels.
I leave this business, such as it is,
to higher-minded poets or tireless annalists.

I sing simply of Love, of grace, and those graces
who are your friends, warm with life and giving
               you grief, playfully—these late evenings in December.
And I sing of such beautiful people, even closer,
safe and asleep nearby, here and there, her
                             and her and him, so pleasing
and peace be with them,
and you too, Reader, you too.





Rest on the flight into Egypt

One day thought’s Gethsemane
Like some personal handicap
Or guilt, will venerate the image
Of its last nativity, will fold
Its wings away and say,
“The bird of doubt has gone today.”

And all the “how could I be
So stupid” habit of the soul
Will harden to a pigment
Like raven’s feathers, painted
And set on an ancient canvas,
Giving up its foreground
To a moment’s peace in that journey
Of escape from Bethlehem of birth.

Just as in David’s “Rest on the Flight
Into Egypt,” an angel having whispered
Of slaughter, “You must leave, Joseph,”
He, knocking walnuts from the tree,
The donkey munching quietly some hay,
His son reaching up for grapes,
A young child’s suffering at play,
Not thinking yet, “I must, they say.”

And Mary, seated on a rock,
After long labor, serene as
Nazareth, building her pyramid.

Slow: Animal crossing

Just after we’ve communally stuffed and thanked,
the first sleet comes down in shanks
of dirty lambs’ wool, rude messy sheets,
slathering the cars we hunch in, hurrying
again, against some febrile deadline, dodging
the poor squiggling squirrel trying to shoot
across the heavy-metal trafficked road
that intersects his world.

He seems to have made it, tail on.
We may, too, make it home, untripped
this time by our own haste,
knowing in some dark artery
that the meal we need,
the company against the cold,
like the animals in the Ark,
are all waiting, like Advent,
inside the small rooms of the remaining
calendar, we pass through, one
by one.

"And the angel left her"

            Luke 1:38

So there she stood alone amid a stillness
as loud as any earthquake she had heard,
the eaves creaking in the absence of wind,
the hiss and tick of radiators warming
the house along with a soon-coming sun.
Her hands touch her belly, swelling already
like dough cupped close in an earthen bowl.
She knows it won’t be long before she shows.
What to do with all this sudden silence?
Phone her boyfriend: Joseph, I have news!
E-mail St. Anne: Dear Mother, I’m afraid.
Drop to her knees, now weak with recognition
and kiss the space he filled a moment past
in answer to the question he had asked.

Jesus climbing trees

Let this, too, be a source of praise,
that trees meet in the park like six-
winged seraphim, stooping low enough
for a boy to find foothold
and swing himself to a crooked seat.

This act of grasping something greater,
knowing that one's weight won't break
the boughs, that weakness allows mastery.
The sudden slip that bloodies the thigh,
the husky bark rasping one's shin,
then the elation of hanging by the knees,
trembling, maybe, but trusting the limb.

Surely Jesus, too, climbed trees in Galilee,
frightening Mary by exceeding her grasp,
then flinging his body from the upper branches
and returning to earth, triumphant and flushed.

He must have enjoyed as a boy the enabling flaw,
must have loved the flesh He knew would fail,
trailing for hours the ascents of his nimble creatures:
the ring-tailed raccoon, the unseen lizard,
the silent beetle, armored and green.