Monday, January 07, 2008

Jorie Graham


The slow overture of rain,
each drop breaking
without breaking into
the next, describes
the unrelenting, syncopated
mind. Not unlike
the hummingbirds
imagining their wings
to be their heart, and swallows
believing the horizon
to be a line they lift
and drop. What is it
they cast for? The poplars,
advancing or retreating,
lose their stature
equally, and yet stand firm,
making arrangements
in order to become
imaginary. The city
draws the mind in streets,
and streets compel it
from their intersections
where a little
belongs to no one. It is
what is driven through
all stationary portions
of the world, gravity's
stake in things, the leaves,
pressed against the dank
window of November
soil, remain unwelcome
till transformed, parts
of a puzzle unsolvable
till the edges give a bit
and soften. See how
then the picture becomes clear,
the mind entering the ground
more easily in pieces,
and all the richer for it.


Glamourpuss said...

Hmmm, I think my mind is more like a three-year-old on a sugar rush in a toy shop. But I shall aspire to this.


Pawlie Kokonuts said...

There is no sweet mournful lively piercing touching sound like rain on a tin roof or upon the windshield and car roof. I have blogged about it, but have I written a poem about it?