Two for Tuesday: Joanna Klink

Brompton Cemetery, London by Heather Desportes (FCC)

……………But mine is darker,
slanted, nitrous blue at the root,

an acrostic of what is
most free and
far.” ~ Joanna Klink, from “Aubade”

Tuesday late morning, cloudy and humid, 80 degrees.

It’s interesting living in a house during the summer without an air conditioner. It would be impossible in Norfolk, where the summer humidity hovers between 90 and 100 percent. But it’s not bad here, except when doing something physical, like cleaning. Then it becomes impossible. Nevertheless, I like the fact that we’re not adding to global warming even though that’s not why we don’t have AC.

Old Calton Burial Ground, Edinburgh, Scotland (FCC)

Unfortunately, I’m still not venturing outside much except to help Corey milk Penny the goat. We don’t have a milking stand, so I hold her and soothe her as he milks, and when I come back inside, I am covered in bites. Once we have a stand, the whole milking process should improve. It will be good when the pasture is finally divided and fenced so that I can reclaim the front yard from the animals. Truly, it looks as if a barnyard out there, and there is no escape from the no-seeums that plague my body with bites.

Today’s poems are by American poet Joanna Klink. Both are entitled “The Graves.” I have included links to the sites on which I found the poems. I love the following passage in which Klink talks about why she writes poes:

“In poems I am trying to find my bearings through a world that at times feels remote and inchoate and struck blank with noise. I would like to place myself in a field of deep attention, and out of that attention come to feel and regard with more acute understanding what is there. I write to be less hopelessly myself, to sense something more expansive than where I speak from.”

The Graves

Wind for your sickness.
The moon for your sickness.

…….A river of night-
…….trees.  Mossy patches

where something recently slept.
A hand-drawn sketch of
fish for your sickness,

…….red and ghost-
…….loamed.  From your mother,

for your sickness, a late
flock of snow-geese
swept up in a gust.

…….From your father, a cave
…….of violas in luminous
…….pitch.  For the panic

desolation.  For scratchy bed-
sheets, the gathering of tumors,
a dispensation traveling in

…….far-nesses across the
…….galaxy-quiet of what is

to come.  Dark-sunned,
you are swimming in schools.

…….For the despairing quality of
…….hospital fluorescence,

the secondhand alarm—
theft of time theft of

…….hope.  The messages
…….arrive like flowers.

For the common un-
contested light of dusk.
For tobacco moths

…….in clouds of wings at
…….the door.  For the dawn-

emotion, a calm-in-vastness
that descends upon
what is.  Upon the storm-

…….tangle of branches, wing-
…….veins and hand-veins
…….shadow-shown on that pale

skin of sky.  Too stone for
fear.  Too brittle for

…….findings.  From the powers that,
…….born on the site of sorrow,

fall in strands of smoke
across your sickness,
for your sickness,

…….and carry and keep you.
…….That would keep you here.

~ Joanna Klink (Found on Chonicle of Higher Education)

The Graves

So here are the strange feelings that flicker
in you or anchor like weights in your eyes.
Turn back and you might undo them,
the way trees seem to float
free of themselves as they root.
A swan can hold itself on the gray ice water
and not waver, an open note upon which minor chords
blur and rest. But it was born dark.
The shore of that lake is littered with glass.
How you came to be who you are
was all unwinding, aimless on a bike,
off to retrieve a parcel that could only be a gift,
and felt, as a child, the sea
weave around your feet, white light rushing in with the surf.
What lived there?
                              —Joy, dispatched from nowhere,
and no need to think about your purpose,
and no fear that the sun gliding down
might burn the earth it feeds. Black habitat of now
in which decimation looks tender.
Sometimes the call of a bird is so clear
it bruises my hands. At night, behind glass,
light empties out then fills a room and the people in it,
hovering around a fire, gorgeous shapes of wind
leaning close to each other in laughter.
From this distance, they are a grace,
an ache. The kingdom inside.

~ Joanna Klink (Found on Poetry Foundation)


Music by Leelou, “Don’t You Forget about Me”

Advertisements