Wednesday, August 24, 2016

The sky eats up the trees

Readers of this blog also know that I love (my boy) James Schuyler. He was a master of the Write Right Now. Thus, his National Book Award winner, The Morning of the Poem which is one continuous dream of a morning, of a poem, of life observed. The Award was well-deserved. His work continues to influence writers of today.


The world seems scary. There isn’t a lot of solace. So I turn to poetry. Now is the time to immerse ourselves in poetry. To turn away from the world and all it’s turmoil and trauma. I’m not exactly going to put my head in a hole, but rather I want to describe to you another world. One without a ranting and raving orange-haired man. Thank you.

The sky eats up the trees

The newspaper comes. It
has a bellyful of bad news.
The sun is not where it was.
Nor is the moon. Once so
flat, now so round. A man
carries papers out of the house. Which makes a small
change. I read at night.
I take the train and go
to the city. Then I come
back. Mastic Shirley,
Patchogue, Quogue. And for
all the times I’ve stopped, hundreds, at their
stations, that’s all
I know. One has
a lumberyard. The sun
puts on a smile.
The day had a bulge
around 3 p.m. After,
it slips, cold and quiet
into night. I read
in bed. And in the a.m.
put a recond on to
shave to. Uptown in a
shop a man has blue
eyes that enchant. He
is friendly and inter
esting to me, though he is
not an interesting man.
Bad news is a funny kind
of breakfast. An addict
I can scarcely eat my
daily crumble without
its bulk. I read at
night and shave when
I get up. That’s true.
Life will change and
I am part of it and
will change too. So
will you, and you, and
you, the secret—what’s
a secret?—center of
my life, your name and
voice engraved like
record grooves upon
my life, spinning its
time between the lines
I read at night, a
graffito on the walls
of flavored paper I
see, looking up from
pages of Lady Mary
Wortley Montague or
a yellow back novel.
A quiet praise, yes,
that’s it, between the
lines I read at night.
From Collected Poems, James Schuyler, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1993.

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