The Dawning

by George Herbert (1593-1633)


Awake sad heart, whom sorrow ever drowns;
      Take up thine eyes, which feed on earth;
Unfold thy forehead gather’d into frowns:
      Thy Saviour comes, and with him mirth:
                        Awake, awake;
And with a thankfull heart his comforts take.
      But thou dost still lament, and pine, and crie;
      And feel his death, but not his victorie.

Arise sad heart; if thou dost not withstand,
      Christ's resurrection thine may be:
Do not by hanging down break from the hand,
      Which as it riseth, raiseth thee:
                        Arise, Arise;
And with his buriall-linen drie thine eyes:
      Christ left his grave-clothes, that we might, when grief
      Draws tears, or bloud, not want an handkerchief.

Response to Barn Swallow

(whose beautiful poem, "Out of Season," can be found here)



Eager now for autumn,
    I lament the haze
pressing down upon me
    through these August days.
Waiting for October--
    leaves are all ablaze;
nights are crisp and chilly;
    hearts are made for praise.

The New Crystal Tambourine

has been updated with ten short poems in an accentual approximation of Latin elegiac meter.

Addendum, 9 August: And there's this sonnet, written at least 20 years ago.

Crime Fiction Notwithstanding

When it is ninety-five degrees outside
and only slightly cooler in the shade,
it is not right to speak of "cold hard facts."



1990

Mutability

Miracles, miracles:
They happen sporadically


And bloom, like blood, out of
Whack. The energetic wind


Pummels our skins
With blunt indoctrination.


The seascape rings its changes
Against the black rocks.


1990
revised 2012

Something

Open to the public once again

Here is The Crystal Tambourine at its new URL.

Elastic Sparrows

Elastic sparrows
Verging on a branch, a
Galaxy of
Mulberries, squirrel-gods
Jouncing the red-eyed constellations.


Scholar of terrible plastic solitude
I carry a bag full of brown
Feathers
And rectilinear daydreams. Observe
How the plump pigeon pokes its beak


Into a puddle-filled pothole.
The mudslick of March has
Officially
Begun, per order of the Deputy
Sheriff of Prestidigitation.


I have prepared an operation
Which will turn pennies into
Pocket-watches. "I must get
To my repast directly," spake
The temperate ant beneath the driest


Of grassblades.


The tasteless power of rainclouds
Cramps the heart and makes the brain convince itself
That surviving a damp late Saturday afternoon
Involves pushing and shoving adamantine moods
Into a mousehole of a closet.


The syntax of churches
Like needles in the white mist, classified
Ventilation, anti-corrosive rituals.


She was wearing a pair of lunettes
And a red question was posing itself
Between her brisk stature
And the solemn texture of the sidewalk-colored sky.


1990

Sickness and Health

New stirrings lie ahead
For the last great apostle of rugged individualism.
Sixty-five years in captivity
Slide by, having engaged themselves in writing
Poems about the imprisoned seagull, the clockwork
Sea. The grim stamp of validation rises
Like a daisy-colored moon
Over the lackluster heath, over
The mechanical pond where plastic ducks fulgurate,
Quack and flutter, brushing
The surrounding air
With minimal, bombastic strokes.
Validation, revenge, clear-eyed
Retribution: these are the simple things
Which clutter our dreams.


What do you hear, what do you say?
I think I shall do nothing
For the rest of my life but listen
To your breath
And breathe your airs and glances, your
Subtle magic, your style. Suppose I asked you
To have a heart, would you
Think it a rude request?


No one speaks. The river
Continues to sleep. The ocean sleeps.
The poet puts down his pen
After sixty-five years of dismally
Blissful captivity
And coughs like mad, and coughs like nobody's business.


1990

Libertarianism, anyone?

I like much of what Libertarians (and lowercase-l libertarians) stand for: peace; liberty in certain personal choices (the legalization of marijuana wouldn't trouble me); economic "conservatism" of a kind that is often more sincere than that which is proposed by the GOP.  But there are a couple of things that keep me from joining their number "officially."  The demeanor of many libertarians seems infected with a kind of unattractive ideological absolutism, a sort of "those who are not with us are against us" mentality. Not good.  Also, to be frank, the economics concern me a bit.  Without a doubt, bureaucracies can be cut, and some even eliminated--but I do believe in a "safety net" for the elderly and the vulnerable among us.  On the moral issues, there's a kind of agnosticism I find troubling--but at least a libertarian government wouldn't be funding Planned Parenthood, or coercing Catholic institutions to pay for contraception.


Libertarians are honest, though, and they're thought-provoking.  And I gave them a vote 16 years ago.  And as for voting Libertarian this November, I wouldn't rule it out. But to become a card-carrying member of the party?  For now, dear friends, in the words of Samuel Goldwyn, "Include me out."

"We force the spring"

This ceremony is held in the depth of winter,

but by the words we speak

and the faces we show the world,

we force the spring.

President Bill Clinton

January 20, 1993

Spring can't be forced, not even by
     the January thaw--
no tulip blooms by state decree;
     robins obey no law.


The libertarian butterfly
     disdains the plebiscite,
and roses grow, steady and slow--
     you can't compel delight!

The Poet's Voice

Along with the alteration of the design of the poem have come, as I have said, substantial changes in the poem's diction and its subject matter. Much was gained by these changes, but certain things were lost. There was, in the tone of the old poems, a certainty, an authority which was implied and fortified through its elevated diction. Of course I am not talking about poetic diction! I am talking about a diction and a tone that was other than the daily, the usual, the ordinary. In and of itself, apart from the content of the poem, this tone suggested to the reader that something of import was on the page--was contained within the occasion of the poem. Since, as I see it, the work of the poem is to transcend the ordinary instance, to establish itself on a second, metaphysical level, this tone was important, and useful. It served, in the old poem, as a steeple serves a church; even in the distance it says: Here is holy ground. Here is something different from everyday.


Mary Oliver, in "The Poet's Voice," from Blue Pastures (Harvest/Harcourt, 1995), this excerpt p. 105; entire essay pp. 95-115

Storm

Oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
as King Lear called you,
splitting trees in half,
knocking down power lines,
striking rooftops, sparking blazes,
terrifying fretful elders,
amazing the eyes of the young,
lo! the chaos you've unleashed
this pluvious afternoon!
making avenues impassible,
making bus-travel impossible,
causing general mayhem,
cleaving the oaks as a child
might snap a toothpick.


Not yet knowing the full scope
of your sudden destructive wrath,
I sat in the Stopped Clock
as you did your worst,
waiting out the storm
with lager and with chit-chat
about the news of the world,
the follies of politicians, 
the scandals of celebrities,
the quirks of the not-so-famous.


You did not quite manage to
"strike flat the thick rotundity
o' the world," but you did
cut down many a noble arbor,
and bring your steeple-drenching floods.
Worse than last August's hurricane
in my estimation, more fierce,
yet in this ferocity, one can perceive
the nobility of an untamed lion,
of the mad king on the heath.