after William Edouard Scott’s Rainy Night, Étaples
Why, on this night of shiver and hunch, are so many
trudging these river-y streets of small cafés
and darkened shops, all of us hugging ourselves
for warmth, watching our feet crush neon sheets
Baghdad-born artist Qais Al-Sindy, who now lives in California, knows what it means to carry a land, a people, and a tradition with him. His art creates connections between different cultures and traditions as he raises profound questions and seeks to promote spiritual healing.
The crush of bodies, bow ties, suits,
sleek smiling women dressed in silk,
the din of small talk drowning thought,
and all I yearn for is escape but where
to flee when all around the high-walled
room glass-fronted cases hold me trapped.
Or so I think until I look, and there beneath
the glass I find Thomas Merton, sacred
friend, who writes, I read, to Rachel Carson
who, there beside him, then replies, and
Annie Dillard, I find her, the final draft of
Tinker Creek, the typed page inked, words
Morning fog—such a blessing in this town of too much sun.
My wife doesn’t think so, being from the Sierra foothills,
but the gray quiet in the oaks is the closest thing we have,
most days, to the moiling clouds of Oregon, where I grew up.
Now that I’m about to retire, we’re looking for a new home
with equal parts light and shade—impossible to find, of course.
Milton’s celestial radiance with only a slight diminution
during an artificial night would suit her just fine,
The intense concentration of self in the middle of such
a heartless immensity, my God! who can tell it?
—Herman Melville
Like Pip, we float on a horizonless sea,
ringed by immensity. Some fail to see
it, imagining their whaleboat the world,
distracted and distracting in their revelry, startled