Saturday, May 15, 2010

Third Poem of Morning (or Mourning)

the devil is a familiar chap
his voice like silk
Christ's voice is wood
and both can warm you
set afire
(siren song, jazz on the radio)

a small boy walks bundled
in a coat toward the well in morning
a fictional town
spun by Wendell Berry
(part nostalgia, part poetry)
if nostalgia is the devil
is poetry the Christ?

when the small boy is me
or a past self
the news comes on, a woman
poised to jump from a bridge
since one-thirty this morning
(seven hours suspended
between her death, our life)

water shines below
yet comes to her the smell of wood-smoke
both ephermeral, both vital
(which to embrace?)


Angel-Star said...

as i was writing this poem last october, news on the radio, a woman on an overpass in san diego threatening to that way she entered the life of this poem, and changed it...i turned on the tv...she did not end up jumping...but did cause a tremendous traffic jam...such is life

Noelle said...

I love your's so honest and reachable. Thanks for sharing.

Angel-Star said...

thank you, noelle...what a beautiful name you have

K9friend said...

Such interesting observations on choices.