“At Least”
Raymond CarverI want to get up early one more morning,
before sunrise. Before the birds, even.
I want to throw cold water on my face
and be at my work table
when the sky lightens and smoke
begins to rise from the chimneys
of the other houses.
I want to see the waves break
on this rocky beach, not just hear them
break as I did all night in my sleep.
I want to see again the ships
that pass through the Strait from every
seafaring country in the world—
old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,
and the swift new cargo vessels
painted every color under the sun
that cut the water as they pass.
I want to keep an eye out for them.
And for the little boat that plies
the water between the ships
and the pilot station near the lighthouse.
I want to see them take a man off the ship
and put another up on board.
I want to spend the day watching this happen
and reach my own conclusions.
I hate to seem greedy—have so much
to be thankful for already.
But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.
And go to my place with some coffee and wait.
Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.
Tag: praise
Because you love
the usual, rain, tired sky, you cannot pray
not even if it helps explain your sudden wish
to be the old man watching all this from his porch,
not asked for any pretense of work or joy to take
what sight still gives of color, and in slack
light to lift no hand to change a thing within
this perfect world of promised dark ?
just to see, and in plain seeing judge, as well
as any god could ask, all things good
which do not chorus for attention.
–Art Homer excerpt of “Duplex on Main” from What We Did After Rain
The little sparrows
Hop ingenuously
About the pavement
Quarreling
With sharp voices
Over those things
That interest them.
But we who are wiser
Shut ourselves in
On either hand
And no one knows
Whether we think good
Or evil.
Then again,
The old man who goes about
Gathering dog lime
Walks in the gutter
Without looking up
And his tread
Is more majestic than
That of the Episcopal minister
Approaching the pulpit
Of a Sunday.
These things
Astonish me beyond words.
Devin Kelly
SOMETIMES I’M IN MY HEAD SO LONG & WHEN YOU GET HERE IT FEELS LIKE A DISRUPTION
My lover tells me the moment I
cross the threshold of her door.
Outside a man yells the price of produce
while all above like pen marks
upon a sheet of colored paper
birds traverse the infinite paths that connect
where they are to where they’re going
with an ease I’ve only seen
in a drunk man stumbling toward
a piss’ pain-free release.
I am trying to hold on to each small
almost forgotten orb of my grace
until someone takes it from me.
When you kiss me often
it feels like the tongue in my mouth
has assumed the weight & shape
of a bear’s lung. It takes
such great stamina to bear
the pain of this world
while forever holding out on the momentary
possibility of a scream. Clutch me
like you mean it. Don’t be
so timid. It’s not like you
to want without wanting, to listen to
the faint tune disrupting your head
& not find within it
a melody.
I have an idea.
I’m sick of birds & I think
we might be better than their
twirling-all-innocent-&-not-giving-a-fuck.
I’ve been holding in my small, just created womb
a thimble of happiness. It looks
like jello you just shot a bullet through.
It’s quite literally an explosion of color,
like a flower dropped acid & tried
to make a baby with another flower.
You can have it.
I’ve never known
quite what to do with it
& I know you’re having
a hard time believing in anything
other than yourself anymore.
So take it. Drink up! Even the trees
grow weary waiting
for you to climb them & shoo
these pesky birds away.
Joanna Klink from “Sorting & Wonder of Birds”
When I wake up I am responsible
When I wake up alone, I am forced to see
Over the ossified earth the waters are rising
I avert my eyes
Each of us who has a home—
we darken
And the wonder of birds is that they still rise
The wonder of birds
I believe in what is gentle in us, despite what we have done
I believe I can praise everything I am not permitted to become
I believe there is no love in bluntness
but in the struggle toward attention
which is light
louise gluck, from “vespers” in The Wild Iris
Little Bristling Soul 