Morning Trip (97)

“A man is walking in a field
and everywhere at his feet
in the short grass of April
the small purple violets
are in bloom. As the man walks
the ground drops away,
the sunlight of day becomes
a sort of darkness in which
the lights of the flowers rise
up around him like
fireflies or stars in a sort
of sky through which he walks.”
– Wendell Berry, IV Leavings

The Sky

The Sky
it was pomegranate.

A dark
night
sky

Not fading and deepening blues–
But
Pomegranate.

Focused upon focusing.
Something grand to attend.
The Sky
it was pomegranate.

Such a slight thing
without evident meaning
or intent

Can’t there be anything else?

No.
It was pomegranate.

–by elisabeth connelley

Oh wait, this, I thought, was a blog, but now I think it was a poem. I tried asking it, but so far, it has not answered and I’d rather stay with the pomegranate.

Morning Trip (61)

62. [Autumn]1
The yellow forest lies beneath the sun
Quiet, although it suffereth decay
The brooklet to the Ocean-deep does run
With gentle lapse and silent(2) melts away,
The clouds upon the evening sky are bright
But wasting mingle in the glorious light.

So, may my soul in life’s declining hours
Like the still forest never once complain:
And flow unmurmuring, adown its course
Like yonder brooklet to the Eternal Main;
And as the clouds upon the sunset sky
Be mingled with the radiance on high.

–Thomas Cole

1. untitled manuscript,
2. silent/softly”

(My own note. This same poem, punctuated differently, carries a date of 1842. The date is gleened from sequence in his writing books. There is no indication how far apart autumn 1 and autumn 2 are in work nor in writing, by the editor, Marshall B. Tymn.)

Morning Trip

“The Midnight Club

The gifted have told us for years
that they want to be loved
For what they are, that they,
in whatever fullness is theirs,
Are perishable in twilight,
just like us. So they work all night
in rooms that are cold and
webbed with the moon’s light;
Sometimes, during the day,
they lean on their cars,
And stare into the blistering
valley, glassy and golden,
But mainly they sit, hunched
in the dark, feet on the floor,
Hands on the table, shirts with a
bloodstain over the heart.”
– Mark Strand, The Continuous Life