Red Bird: Poems (2 page)

Another Everyday Poem

Every day
    I consider
        the lilies—
            how they are dressed—

and the ravens—
    how they are fed—
        and how each of these
            is a miracle

of Lord-love
    and of sorrow—
        for the lilies
            in their bright dresses

cannot last
    but wrinkle fast
        and fall,
            and the little ravens

in their windy nest
    rise up
        in such pleasure
            at the sight

of fresh meat
    that makes their lives sweet—
        and what a puzzle it is
            that such brevity—

the lavish clothes,
    the ruddy food—
        makes the world
            so full, so good.

Visiting the Graveyard

When I think of death
it is a bright enough city,
and every year more faces there
are familiar

but not a single one
notices me,
though I long for it,
and when they talk together,

which they do
very quietly,
it’s in an unknowable language—
I can catch the tone

but understand not a single word—
and when I open my eyes
there’s the mysterious field, the beautiful trees.
There are the stones.

Ocean

I am in love with Ocean
lifting her thousands of white hats
in the chop of the storm,
or lying smooth and blue, the
loveliest bed in the world.
In the personal life, there is

always grief more than enough,
a heart-load for each one of us
on the dusty road. I suppose
there is a reason for this, so I will be
patient, acquiescent. But I will live
nowhere except here, by Ocean, trusting
equally in all the blast and welcome
of her sorrowless, salt self.

With the Blackest of Inks

At night
    the panther,
        who is lean
            and quick,

is only
    a pair of eyes
        and, with a yawn,
            momentarily,

a long, pink tongue.
    Mostly
        he listens
            as he walks

on the puffs
    of his feet
        as if
            on a carpet

from Persia,
    or leaps
        into the branches
            of a tree,

or swims
    across the river,
        or simply
            stands in the grass

and waits.
    Because, Sir,
        you have given him,
            for your own reasons,

everything that he needs:
    leaves, food, shelter;
        a conscience
            that never blinks.

Invitation

Oh do you have time
    to linger
        for just a little while
            out of your busy

and very important day
    for the goldfinches
        that have gathered
            in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,
    to see who can sing
        the highest note,
            or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,
    or the most tender?
        Their strong, blunt beaks
            drink the air

as they strive
    melodiously
        not for your sake
            and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning
    but for sheer delight and gratitude—
        believe us, they say,
            it is a serious thing

just to be alive
    on this fresh morning
        in this broken world.
            I beg of you,

do not walk by
    without pausing
        to attend to this
            rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
    It could mean everything.
        It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
            
You must change your life.

The Orchard

I have dreamed
of accomplishment.
I have fed

ambition.
I have traded
nights of sleep

for a length of work.
Lo, and I have discovered
how soft bloom

turns to green fruit
which turns to sweet fruit.
Lo, and I have discovered

all winds blow cold
at last,
and the leaves,

so pretty, so many,
vanish
in the great, black

packet of time,
in the great, black
packet of ambition,

and the ripeness
of the apple
is its downfall.

A River Far Away and Long Ago

The river
    of my childhood,
        that tumbled
            down a passage of rocks

and cut-work ferns,
    came here and there
        to the swirl
            and slowdown

of a pool
    and I saw myself—
        oh, clearly—
            as I knelt at one—

then I saw myself
    as if carried away,
        as the river moved on.
            Where have I gone?

Since then
    I have looked and looked
        for myself,
            not sure

who I am, or where,
    or, more importantly, why.
        It’s okay—
            I have had a wonderful life.

Still, I ponder
    where that other is—
        where I landed,
            what I thought, what I did,

what small or even maybe meaningful deeds
    I might have accomplished
        somewhere
            among strangers,

coming to them
    as only a river can—
        touching every life it meets—
            that endlessly kind, that enduring.

Night Herons

Summer Story

When the hummingbird
sinks its face
into the trumpet vine,
into the funnels

of the blossoms,
and the tongue
leaps out
and throbs,

I am scorched
to realize once again
how many small, available things
are in this world

that aren’t
pieces of gold
or power—
that nobody owns

or could buy even
for a hillside of money—
that just
float about the world,

or drift over the fields,
or into the gardens,
and into the tents of the vines,
and now here I am

spending my time,
as the saying goes,
watching until the watching turns into feeling,
so that I feel I am myself

a small bird
with a terrible hunger,
with a thin beak probing and dipping
and a heart that races so fast

it is only a heartbeat ahead of breaking—
and I am the hunger and the assuagement,
and also I am the leaves and the blossoms,
and, like them, I am full of delight, and shaking.

The Teachers

Owl in the black morning,
    mockingbird in the burning
        slants of the sunny afternoon
            declare so simply

to the world
    everything I have tried but still
        haven’t been able
            to put into words,

so I do not go
    far from that school
        with its star-bright
            or blue ceiling,

and I listen to those teachers,
    and others too—
        the wind in the trees
            and the water waves—

for they are what lead me
    from the dryness of self
        where I labor
            with the mind-steps of language—

lonely, as we all are
    in the singular,
        I listen hard
            to the exuberances

of the mockingbird and the owl,
    the waves and the wind.
        And then, like peace after perfect speech,
            such stillness.

Percy and Books (Eight)

Percy does not like it when I read a book.
He puts his face over the top of it and moans.
He rolls his eyes, sometimes he sneezes.
The sun is up, he says, and the wind is down.
The tide is out and the neighbor’s dogs are playing.
But Percy, I say. Ideas! The elegance of language!
The insights, the funniness, the beautiful stories
that rise and fall and turn into strength, or courage.

Books? says Percy. I ate one once, and it was enough.
Let’s go.