June 7, 2006

After Making Love, We Hear Footsteps

This is an absolutely beautiful poem by Galway Kinnell. Clearly I have missed some great poetry, and need to catch up.

After Making Love, We Hear Footsteps

— by Galway Kinnell —

For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run - as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears - in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small
he has to screw them on, which one day may make him wonder
about the mental capacity of baseball players -
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other
and smile
and touch arms across his little, startling muscled body -
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.

Posted by jeff at 5:47 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

July 12, 2003

Piling on Stones

Note: this is a post recovered from my old blog, before it died of an insufficient backup. Any comments/trackbacks on it have not been brought over, but can be seen with the original. The date is that of the original posting.

On a bright September morning,
my laughter turned to ashes and my dancing turned to flames.
I dug a grave seven stories deep, and I filled it
with blood and bones and memories.

And now I'm piling stones,
from an Afghan Winter and a Baghdad Spring.
I'm piling on stones
with every butcher's now-stilled heart,
every bastard's dying gasp,
every twisted sermon from the now-silent lips of the damned.

I'm piling on stones,
with every tyrant thrown down,
every enemy overcome,
until it stretches a thousand feet
into the sky.

I'm piling on stones for every dream,
and every memory
and every moment of childhood and innocence lost,
for every mother and father never coming home,
for every daughter and son never calling.

I'm piling on stones,
a thousand feet into the sky,
until I can sleep again
in silence.

Posted by jeff at 12:00 AM | TrackBack

May 21, 2003

One Perfect Moment

Note: this is a post recovered from my old blog, before it died of an insufficient backup. Any comments/trackbacks on it have not been brought over, but can be seen with the original. The date is that of the original posting.

In the Summer of my sadness
In the Spring of your embrace
In the moment of my madness
There's a state of perfect grace

In the lifetime of our loving
In the blinking of your eyes
In the Autumn of our years
There will be magic and surprise

In the instant of reaction
In the Winter of my soul
There's a deeper satisfaction
When two parts become one whole

In perfect thought and action
Synchronicity released
In the torrent of four boys
There is a perfect point of peace

And if I never said I love you
Quite as often as I might
Then let me tell you now
You are one perfect glimpse of Light

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March 11, 2003

On the Eve of War

Note: this is a post recovered from my old blog, before it died of an insufficient backup. Any comments/trackbacks on it have not been brought over, but can be seen with the original. The date is that of the original posting.

There was a post at Scrappleface which was not a humorous take on current events, but a place for people to post messages in support of our troops. I wrote a poem rather spontaneously in the comments:


On the Eve of War

Then sleep tonight, my precious sons,
for hard men stand upon the wall
and watch while you lay sleeping.

Dream your dreams of simple things -
of games and balls and riding on shoulders,
of Mother's lap and Father's homecoming -
for far away our Nation's best,
our sons and our daughters,
husbands and fathers,
wives and mothers,
all watch over.

Wake to the dawn,
your PJs on,
and come happy to your breakfast.
Somewhere in the cold desert,
those who would die for you
are waiting.

Live, my sons,
not knowing
what your few years cannot yet tell you:
that somewhere in the darkness
stand those who keep you
free.

Posted by jeff at 4:59 PM | TrackBack