August 16, 2004
Deeks Creek Series (in process)
Art is folly. Why imitate nature
when it does itself so deadpan
in us? We are nature's
parody of nature: messy
inefficient persistent noble
when violent self-contained
vortices imploding complete.
But when we're quiet — ah!
Can you hear that? It's beautiful.
Draw the cloth of yourself
through the current and see
how much you want to fall
instream. Perhaps you too
want to melt, suddenly liquid,
from your own grip and pour
away. Or perhaps you wish
to remain a dry thing, clean
and with pressed corners.
It is not for me to say.
The sun still awakens our bodies,
though we have forgotten
its familial warmth indoors,
as if smoke were our own invention,
and not nature's prayer to us
not to forget. But we do, too easily,
and like a feathered thing
smoke stutters in its incantations;
it forgets too, and fades.
The small have got it. These
garter snake, shrew, deer mice,
finch and happy man have got it
all; we just don't know it yet;
we're unaware, is all.
Hope is a fabric of an integrity
rarely woven these days.
Yes, hope may be a feathered thing,
but who are we to shun a thing
so gentle and so strong? Each feather's
made of countless feathers more, soft barbs
that enclasp willlessly enough
to bridle the wind, and yet still
come apart when the clumsy fist of man
squeezes jealously bird bone wing and all
and argues that there is no hope.
But hope is not permanence,
nor permanence stability,
though of this too we are unaware;
we just don't know, is all.
Spiderwebs around the heart
of us are not the trouble;
it's the webs around webs, starving
our hunger and sheltering our fear,
which make the human design cease to be
a marvel of utility and become instead
a failed cocoon
a sailcloth shroud:
full of precious nothing at all
but burdened with the meanings
we still desperately want
them to hold.
Posted by delire at August 16, 2004 02:43 PM