for days now
i awake in
emptiness —
not unlike
fear, a kind of
vacancy
as if
flying
above an ocean
with no map or
navigation, only
fuel enough for
the remainder of
life and
the silent sclaffing
sound of the
propellor
the sea, a flat
horizontal of mottled
filigree, blue in green
spread between
air and floor
why remain in flight?
what is this in me that wants
to wait and see?
chris woodhull
sometimes in the day,
sometimes at night
I walk outside and in,
all around the wooded property
not looking for anything
in particular, nothing really
but this and that, hoping,
no, not hoping: wondering
if the incessant searching
or hunting or waiting
for something to happen,
to move, from beneath
the thing I call my life,
will give it buoyancy.
chris woodhull
The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings:
oh, I have those; they
govern me. I have
a lord in heaven
called the sun, and open
for him, showing him
the fire of my own heart, fire
like his presence.
What could such glory be
if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters,
were you like me once, long ago,
before you were human? Did you
permit yourselves
to open once, who would never
open again? Because in truth
I am speaking now
the way you do. I speak
because I am shattered.
Louise Glück, 1943
glance:
she looks my way
and i look hers
eyes open
as windows
without a word
we think —
who are you?
windows open
eyes turning elsewhere,
mind moving
into privacy
where we
sit and
think about such
things as meeting
strangers, new
friends we
may enjoy —
i sip coffee, she reads
wondering and wondering,
we both
return home.
chris woodhull
the bank of trees, in still wintery
nakedness, a closet
nothing open, waiting
all hidden, yet awake
each tree a finger, distending
holding something within
sleeves of snow scatter,
disappearing, ground breathing
listening
all this, soulful knowing
past and future
all of this, nothing alive and
yet alive
how?
how did this road get here?
I have been walking
this lane for hours,
cut between the wide stand
of poplars and pines
all this roadside
solemnity suggesting someone?
they say a baby
is the essence of a human
where did the baby go?
everything within me
whispers
here!
by chris woodhull
A storm blew in last night and knocked out
the electricity. When I looked
through the window, the trees were translucent.
Bent and covered with rime. A vast calm
lay over the countryside.
I knew better. But at that moment
I felt I’d never in my life made any
false promises, nor committed
so much as one indecent act. My thoughts
were virtuous. Later on that morning,
of course, electricity was restored.
The sun moved from behind the clouds,
melting the hoarfrost.
And things stood as they had before.
poem by Raymond Carver / photograph by Shinzo Maeda
I walked past a house where I lived once:
a man and a woman are still together in the whispers there.
Many years have passed with the quiet hum
of the staircase bulb going on
and off and on again.
The keyholes are like little wounds
where all the blood seeped out. And inside,
people pale as death.
I want to stand once again as I did
holding my first love all night long in the doorway.
When we left at dawn, the house
began to fall apart and since then the city and since then
the whole world.
I want to be filled with longing again
till dark burn marks show on my skin.
I want to be written again
in the Book of Life, to be written every single day
till the writing hand hurts.
Yehuda Amichai
When the gentleness between you hardens
And you fall out of your belonging with each other,
May the depths you have reached hold you still.
When no true word can be said, or heard,
And you mirror each other in the script of hurt,
When even the silence has become raw and torn,
May you hear again an echo of your first music.
When the weave of affection starts to unravel
And anger begins to sear the ground between you,
Before this weather of grief invites
The black seed of bitterness to find root,
May your souls come to kiss.
Now is the time for one of you to be gracious,
To allow a kindness beyond thought and hurt,
Reach out with sure hands
To take the chalice of your love,
And carry it carefully through this echoless waste
Until this winter pilgrimage leads you
Towards the gateway to spring.
The river has a single song,
Which is itself.
The tree has a song.
The bird also.
The heart knows all
These songs
And a million of its own.
Neither the river
Nor the bird can write.
The tree moves
Its branches against
The sky all day
As if it’s thinking
About inventing
It’s own alphabet,
But nothing comes of it.
So it’s still up to us.
We’re supposed to bring
Them into the Book,
Make a place for them in our poems.
The world comes into the poem,
The poem comes into the world.
Reciprocity – it all comes down
To that.
As with lovers:
When it’s right you can’t say
Who is kissing whom.
by Gregory Orr
Monks & Mannequins 