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(I discovered Gary Young back in April in Sentence and knew right away I had to get his book. I even posted the first poem of his that I read. Now I am reading his book and it's amazing and he keeps punching me in the chest and knocking all the air out of me. Which would be bad news on, say, the playground, but which is excellent and wonderful to find in a poem. Many poems. And I must share this joy with all of you. Here are four poems by Gary Young, from his collection No Other Life.)
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I don't know where the owls go when they leave this place, or if they never leave, but simply leave off calling sometimes in their hollow voices. But tonight they are here: one in a redwood beyond the creek, one high in the fir tree above the house. Rappelled through their voices, those three long vowels the darkness speaks in, I forget my own worthlessness which has troubled me all day.
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We sat in a silence interrupted by gesture; there was nothing I could say. I rubbed his legs, and pulled the curled fingers of his hand. He tried to speak, and I think he said, I'll be seeing you. And I wondered, if that's so, how will I recognize him then.
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Our cat was killed in the first hour of the new year. Later that night it snowed. I saw this as a sign. I grieved the loss of pure pleasure, love's small shadow at our feet. Now I see his final mark--the world without him. Wrens glean seeds beneath the window, and a reckless thrush struts before the door all day.
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Because a world may be called into being, or talked away, the voice inside never quits. I once shamed a boy, called him bed wetter in front of his friends, and the voice kept me up all night, repeating the bitter words. Later, the voice said, cancer, and she's dead. She's dead. You have cancer. This morning the air is sweet with bunchgrass and the smell of horses milling in the corral. It's my birthday. I'm forty-one, and the voice says, you're in Wyoming. I am so happy, and I hear it again, you're in Wyoming.
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I don't know where the owls go when they leave this place, or if they never leave, but simply leave off calling sometimes in their hollow voices. But tonight they are here: one in a redwood beyond the creek, one high in the fir tree above the house. Rappelled through their voices, those three long vowels the darkness speaks in, I forget my own worthlessness which has troubled me all day.
-----
We sat in a silence interrupted by gesture; there was nothing I could say. I rubbed his legs, and pulled the curled fingers of his hand. He tried to speak, and I think he said, I'll be seeing you. And I wondered, if that's so, how will I recognize him then.
-----
Our cat was killed in the first hour of the new year. Later that night it snowed. I saw this as a sign. I grieved the loss of pure pleasure, love's small shadow at our feet. Now I see his final mark--the world without him. Wrens glean seeds beneath the window, and a reckless thrush struts before the door all day.
-----
Because a world may be called into being, or talked away, the voice inside never quits. I once shamed a boy, called him bed wetter in front of his friends, and the voice kept me up all night, repeating the bitter words. Later, the voice said, cancer, and she's dead. She's dead. You have cancer. This morning the air is sweet with bunchgrass and the smell of horses milling in the corral. It's my birthday. I'm forty-one, and the voice says, you're in Wyoming. I am so happy, and I hear it again, you're in Wyoming.
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Date: 2007-08-07 06:08 am (UTC)From: