i. can.

Variation On A Theme By Rilke

(The Book of Hours, Book I, Poem 1, Stanza 1)


A certain day became a presence to me;
there it was, confronting me — a sky, air, light:
a being. And before it started to descend
from the height of noon, it leaned over
and struck my shoulder as if with
the flat of a sword, granting me
honor and a task. The day's blow
rang out, metallic — or it was I, a bell awakened,
and what I heard was my whole self
saying and singing what it knew: I can.


- Denise Levertov

when we do.

Singing Image of Fire

A hand moves, and the fire's whirling takes different shapes:
All things change when we do.
The first word, "Ah," blossoms into all others.
Each of them is true.

- Kūkai [774-835]
translation by Jane Hirshfield

post. apocalypse.

i have read...
and immediately responded
to your letter.
call.
and.
response.
...and eeked out with passion
...in furtive splotches of clumsy ink.
black.
the thought carried
for so long, my heart
craters a constant
hole.
it aches.
it haunts.
a footfall,
remarkably like yours.

and after tears and tears and years and tears.
[i've cried so long, even tragedies seem quaint]
i fumbled the word out
on the page.
the word.
made flesh.
the flesh.
made alive between us.
[and neither
of us,
were ever the same.]

so. after
crying. and sitting
in silence.
like a catatonic wretch.
i let the words come.
come.
flood forth,
and they came.

and finally after days of carrying the tiny missile.
i rent asunder the lines
that connect
the far-flung
ties
that still bind.
even now.

and stitched together.
like suturing
a binding, piercing
my heart.
my hands.
my all.
for you.

check the box.
the mailman cometh.

and all God's children gots travelin' shoes.

so.
some day.
i'm gonna cash in my chips and give
away my books. i'm gonna
kiss the coming gravestones
for my tiniest kitters, and
yank the ball and chain
on my cloister's light bulb.
one.
last.
time.
that rusty door hinge
will sigh, goodbye
...and donning my tough soles, i
will wander my way
outta
town.

look for me
in the winter stars. and
in the wind-seduced trees. i
will be.
that sound of wings o'erhead. i
will be.
the remarkable and noted quiet. i
will be.
every child grinning back in the
grocery store wagon. i
will be.
the twilight and the morning light.
and when you wonder where i wander...
stop
a minute,
and say hello to a stranger.
a notty, aged, and weather-warn, street person.
take
a moment.
to.
see.
them.
be kind.
say hello then.
and i will smile.

how to disappear.

"i'm growing so quiet," she said.
SHOUT. Discourse. whisper.
[gone]

blessed mercy.

i'm so used to losing.
i live with open hands now.
oh, blessed mercy.

if you are happy.

Memories of Horses

The lines in the hands of old people
gradually curve over and will point soon toward earth.
They take with them their secret language,
cloud-words and wind-letters,
all the signs the heart gathers up in the lean year.

Sorrow bleaches out and turns to face the stars
but memories of horses, women's feet, children
flow from their old people's faces down to the grass kingdom.

In huge trees we can often see
images of the peace in the sides of animals,
and the wind sketches in the grass, if you are happy,
running children and horses.

- Rolf Jacobsen
translated by Robert Bly