For Rebecca Skeen-Webb (1952-2002)
Here in the quiet provinces, Wars pass via headlines, worrying us Solid citizens even from this distance with their loud report. We in the quiet country have the luxury of Worry, second cousin to fear, And the pleasure of taking our conscience Out for a strenuous walk, choosing this side or that for the exercise of our Opprobrium.
I see my forehead in the mirror, scene of so many dustups and border wars, Internecine conflict and civil war, feuds and Blood oaths. We are showtime, you and I, All the world's a stage and in my forehead I the playwright.
Moths, large & small, beat their wings against the window screen — 'tick!' 'tick-tick!' — mad for the God of Light.
It is time to surrender to The God of Dreams, who in His misterioso castle, which floats Upon a rock above the river Tiburon and has only windows, no doors Schemes and plots tonight's entertainment.
I have died and been killed and been Resurrected time after time out of mind. The distant dog baying into the night two valleys over Calls to me, his mother. I do not answer For we were separated in a flood in ancient Egypt, one more cruelty by the God of the Nile And I grieve still the loss.
I am told, I am taught, to put aside my
grief. In this exultant woodland silence I
Can barely see it, how I put the corpse of my
Friend in my back pocket and stroll on. How
One day, I will set her down beside the trail
on a rock warmed by sun.
Its lichen tracks a green hieroglyphic, pointing
which way to go on.
The fly, big & black as a fresh raisin, stares at itself in the mirror Trying to recall its face, its Original face.
I am sure a hundred, two hundred
Are being spoken tonight in the
Appalachian woodlands, out past the
Boundary lines, in the deepest dark where
Indian bones mingle with cats' jaws and time
Leaves no trail but for the way it imprints the
darkness with the sound of the yawning
of the Earth, sleeping and waking, sleeping and
Waking, for time out of mind.
I hear you and know this — you are Not alone. In the darkness, in the fitful Aeons, no matter how black the night, your Upraised call can be heard, over oceans, over Peaks, it comes to me clear as a bell, Ringing in the mountain morning.
A strange call in the night, perhaps a God from a forgotten age, migrating Dimensions.
I am in love with you even if I do not
Understand you, who like some savage on an undisclosed island
Points a spear to my throat, requests an incantation.
This I can deliver.
So we are brothers at last, have
found one another after the long haul. All
was not lost, after all.
Yes, you say, but love despite it many qualities Is not enough. Not enough. So once again We huddle in our beds, dreaming up our mothers from their crypts, to come suckle us back to life Or to remind us how to look again with wonder and delight at the sun, tossed branch to branch At suppertime.
Even the God of Hope leaves us wanting,
Leaves those of us who duck and cover in
the Collective, the great Ur of longing,
in Jung's impersonal grand cadence, alone in the night.
Into which we cast our delusions,
hoping they come back to us as unexpected
I do not understand you finally say
And that is enough, that is good. That is the
start. I saw Buddha tonight, back turned
Sitting on a rock at sunset. I did not disturb him
nor sit with him. He may still be there,
He may be gone.
I hear no more of the night,
These woods are still for miles. A great, cool
ocean of air laps from one side of the valley
To the other.
~ Cottage 3, Capon Springs & Farms, West Virginia | april2002