On Receiving a Book of Poetry From My Long Lost Friend

Painting by Salvador Dali


ON RECEIVING A BOOK OF POETRY FROM MY LONG LOST FRIEND


for Richard Brobst


Sometimes I look up at the sky too long.
Later, I read a book about the stars
and learn that some stars are too far away,
their light has not yet reached me
they are part of a constellation
that will be named
for a myth yet to be written.
It is travelling as fast as it can.

There are so many sadnesses.
This one is the color of yellowing paper,
autumn leaves wet with winter.

This one is the sound of bells,
the bells in the blood,
the kind that indicate arrivals
or departures
but you can't tell unless you're looking.

This one is like a dark lightbulb,
dead battery, blown fuse.

I am convinced that poetry is not the answer.
It is only a question we ask,
never expecting a reply


***

Things are different here.
For instance, the boys
are walking and
learning the sounds of words,
the infant poetry of linguistics:
dental fricatives, dipthongs,
labial plosives, gutturals.
I eat fruit in the mornings
in a house that I "own."
And I want to believe in Jesus Christ.

Some things, of course, are still the same:
I don't believe in Jesus Christ.
I am still afraid of so many things,
despite daily prayers begging for relief.
I am still confused about my
purpose, as if there must be a purpose.
And I still have that longing
to make something lasting and beautiful,
to give to the future one piece of fruit,
one sweet teardrop enfleshed in skin,
a distillation of a lifetime,
a diamond nectar, a spoken seed.

So much depends upon our peace of mind.


***

We're old enough to know
the time passes and what to call it
and that talk of talk of time
is just that: talk.
The fact is our bodies are dissolving,
entropy is a cold fact of thermodynamics
and soon (five billion years) even the sun
will die.

I'm still trying to finish things--
books, years, manuscripts. There are always
too many beginnings. A life of the mind
is the last angel I know:
all the others have abandoned me.

I heard a song from the lost oaks
the other night. It's good to know
they're live and still beautiful.
It's good to know the roots are deep as dirt
and strong as hands.
It's good to know.


Richard Smyth

Posted over on Anabiosis Press