Christian Wiman: Three Poems for the Weekend
MetroNorth Train in the snow. |
Hard Night
What words or harder gift
does the light require of me
carving from the dark of
this difficult tree?
What place or farther peace
do I almost see
emerging from the night
and heart of me?
The sky whitens, it goes on and on.
Fields wrinkle into rows
of cotton, go on and on.
Night like a fling of crows
disperses and is gone.
What song, what home,
what calm or one clarity
can I not quite come to,
never quite see:
this field, this sky, this tree.
My former stomping grounds: Beverly, MA (Dane St. Beach, at the end of Atlantic Ave) |
O'Rourke's Diner, Middletown, CT |
"Hammer is the Prayer" by Christian Wiman
There is no consolation in the thought of God,
he said, slamming another nail
he said, slamming another nail
in another house another havoc had half-taken.
Grace is not consciousness, nor is it beyond.
Grace is not consciousness, nor is it beyond.
To hell with remembrance, to hell with heaven,
hammer is the prayer of the poor and the dying.
hammer is the prayer of the poor and the dying.
And as wind in some lordless random comes to rest,
and all the disquieted dust within,
and all the disquieted dust within,
peace came to the hinterlands of our minds,
too remote to know, but peace nonetheless.
too remote to know, but peace nonetheless.
Union Station- New Haven, CT |
All Good Conductors
I.
O the screech and heat and hate
we have for each day's commute,
the long wait at the last stop
before we go screaming
underground, while the pigeons
court and shit and rut
insolently on the tracks
because this train is always late,
always aimed at only us,
who when it comes with its
blunt snout, its thousand mouths,
cram and curse and contort
into one creature, all claws and eyes,
tunneling, tunneling, tunneling
toward money.
2.
Sometimes a beauty
cools through the doors at Grand,
glides all the untouchable
angles and planes
of herself
to stand among us
like a little skyscraper,
so sheer, so spare,
gazes going all over her
in a craving wincing way
like sun on glass.
3.
There is a dreamer
all good conductors
know to look for
when the last stop is made
and the train is ticking cool,
some lover, loner, or fool
who has lived so hard
he jerks awake
in the graveyard,
where he sees
coming down the aisle
a beam of light
whose end he is,
and what he thinks are chains
I could look at these pictures all day.
ReplyDeleteJust added some captionz!
ReplyDeleteMuch appreciated. Never noticed the beauty of Union Station's ceiling.
ReplyDelete