Compiègne
—June 2001, June 1940 I We take the train, a friend and I, northeast from Paris. Old Compiègne has cobblestones, fine buildings, souvenirs of war (not least, an empress’s museum), overtones of failure. First, we visit the château, have lunch at a café, outdoors, in shade, then find a taxi driver free to show us—somber…
Rondel for a Passing Year
Autumn’s flaming color scheme has faded; Dusk has smothered shortened day’s last ember. Can the brown chrysanthemums remember When their blazing hues became outdated? Last month’s lawn was jewel-green brocaded Tapestry inlaid with red and amber: Autumn’s flaming color scheme unfaded. Now, dusk has smothered shortened day’s last ember. Days ago two seasons, still…
The Measure of Things
“It’s hard sometimes not to measure by the world’s ruler.” I can still hear Miss Lila’s voice saying those words, though I can’t remember now if she spoke about the need to avoid measuring by the world’s measures, to turn away from the things that the world values—that would have been like her—or whether she…
The Christmas Sled
. . . for the World is both a Paradise and a Prison to different persons.—Thomas Traherne A blizzard more than fifty years ago. Wind-gusted snow took its sweet time to fall, Twenty-nine hours from start to stop. Snow shock. Cars sideways, stuck. People cut off from home, Stranded. Unhurryable shoveling. Troubles that…
Migrations
At dawn, the cranes that slept along the margins of the lake begin to stretch their wings and murmur. Mist ascends around our rowboat. Then in sudden clamor they splash and rise, trumpet across the sky to feast on corn before their long trip south. The sun lifts, silent, from the east. And now the…
Stumbling Upon Akeldama in Winter
Empty lot: cursed soil burned black by the raging fires of summer sun, parched as a dead man’s lips. Yet winter rains bring thick skin of green, the moist breath of grasses, the fluttering heartbeat of insect wings, and their echoing hymn: Nothing dead must stay that way. Morning light brings night’s decay.
Final Ecstasy
“I am so happy! I am so happy!” –dying words of Gerard Manley Hopkins Youth brought him joy in seeing moles and stains On mottled creatures, splotched with shades of dun. He thrilled at freckled beasts, all made by One Above earth’s shadowed flesh–a Light who reigns And spreads a streaked abundance far from lanes…
The Ballad of Whisky
You warm me from the inside out And fill me to the brim. You charm me with your Scottish clout, With your amber color dim. Now stoke the fire and pack your pipe, Fill your glasses well. Your drink is not of common…
Ecphrasis on ‘Tree Growing from Adam’s Grave’
(Friday Hours of the Compassion—Terce) in The Hours of Catherine of Cleves, vol. M, p. 87 Seasoned scenes release their power in yellow. Toward the end the sunset folds away all Footpaths to the city. A pale opossum Lumbers by as if the night will always Fall. There’s a lid—it looks some like a door—laid…
Altar and Offering
i. Through November’s arterial horizon traffic flickers. Mountain bare but for a bent cloud clipping the ridge. What would it mean to see clearly— to know nothing’s there other than what is. ii. A clearing between scrub and birches peeling (white sheets flagging) where sunset sparks. And those hollow tones: geese gathered at the river’s…