“Some things | you know all your life. They are so simple and true | they must be said without elegance, meter and rhyme, | they must be laid on the table beside the salt shaker, | the glass of water” ~ Philip Levine, from “The Simple Truth”

Edvard Munch Winter Landscape from Kragerø 1910 oil on canvas

“Winter Landscape from Kragerø” (1910, oil on canvas)
by Edvard Munch  


Two for Tuesday: Philip Levine

Tuesday night, late. Some remaining drizzle and cold, 33 degrees.

Ah yes. The schedule and publish function of this blog. So seemingly easy, and yet . . .

You cannot possibly be surprised that I did not manage to post this on Tuesday, Tuesday for which it was compiled, Tuesday, the day after Monday and before Wednesday, Tuesday, the day for which songs have been written, Tuesday . . .

Yet here it was, in my list of drafts . . .

Ah, me.

                   

Edvard Munch Winter Forest 1900-01 oil on cardboard

“Winter Forest” (1900-01, oil on cardboard)
by Edvard Munch

 

After Dinner

She’s eaten dinner talking
back to the television, she’s
had coffee and brandy, done
the dishes and drifted into
and out of sleep over a book
she found beside the couch. It’s
time for bed, but she goes
instead to the front door, unlocks
it, and steps onto the porch.
Behind her she can hear only
the silence of the house. The lights
throw her shadow down the stairs
and onto the lawn, and she walks
carefully to meet it. Now she’s
standing in the huge, whispering
arena of night, hearing her
own breath tearing out of her
like the cries of an animal.
She could keep going into
whatever the darkness brings,
she could find a presence there
her shaking hands could hold
instead of each other.

                   

Edvard Munch Winter Night 1923 oil on canvas

“Winter Night” (1923, oil on canvas)
by Edvard Munch

 

Everything

Lately the wind burns
the last leaves and evening
comes too late to be
of use, lately I learned
that the year has turned
its face to winter
and nothing I say or do
can change anything.
So I sleep late and waken
long after the sun has risen
in an empty house and walk
the dusty halls or sit
and listen to the wind
creak in the eaves and struts
of this old house. I say
tomorrow will be different
but I know it won’t.
I know the days are shortening
and when the sun pools
at my feet I can reach
into that magic circle
and not be burned. So
I take the few things
that matter, my book,
my glasses, my father’s ring,
my brush, and put them aside
in a brown sack and wait —
someone is coming for me.
A voice I’ve never heard
will speak my name
or a face press to the window
as mine once pressed
when the world held me out.
I had to see what it was
it loved so much. Nothing
had time to show me
how a leaf spun itself
from water or water cried
itself to sleep for
every human thirst. Now
I must wait and be still
and say nothing I don’t know,
nothing I haven’t lived
over and over,
and that’s everything.

                    

Music by The Moody Blues, “Nights in White Satin” (bet you thought it’d be “Tuesday Afternoon”)

Advertisements

Thoughts, opinions, ideas?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s