Thursday, December 02, 2004
The Things of This World
Richard Wilbur, one of the major poets of our time, has a beautiful poem which begins with a man waking up, as "Love Calls Us to the Things of this World." Sometimes, we get so involved in the ethereal level that we forget about those specifics which tie us to material reality. We lose touch with the felt and seen and utterly tangible items which form our literal surroundings.
Recently, I spent a morning in Golden Gate Park, and took some time just trying to be aware of what was before me. Here are some of the things I noted:
The unexamined calligraphy of the pine needles flung over the pavement of the path.
The silken sheen of the newly erupted grass.
A lime green ebullience, color of renewal.
Two martial arts practitioners—he is the pupil, hesitant sword in hand, she is the teacher confidently flourishing a scarf-topped fan, gray haired master showing the way.
A small mechanical toy boat, carving the lake into undulant segments as it buzzes insistently here and there.
Suddenly, a swath of exploding diamonds moves across the lake from right to left—like an alien life form, limbless, shapeless, disjointed, luminous particles moving together in telepathic union toward some consensual destination.
(And then a thought popped in):
When all else fails, when external images fade, whenever physical agility is itself in question, there is still language, endless refuge and consolation. As long as we can say, we are alive, abiding in some curious mid-region between thing and symbol.
It is now five past twelve and suddenly the lake is still. The buzz saw voice of the battery-powered toy boat is silent, the toy taken away, the gulls sit in quiet meditation around the perimeter of the lake. The swordsman and his female instructor, as well as the strollers, the mothers with their baby carriages—all have vanished. There is an almost alarming calm, an eerie silence, as if news of a calamity had spread and everyone had fled for safety. Only one elderly walker remains. He pauses quietly, peers over into the water, and then softly resumes his slow perambulation.
Where has everyone gone?
Perhaps they are all still here, but invisible, and I have died, unaware, in this seemingly deserted place.
Then, later, I wrote this poem:
Gazing at the Soccer Field below:
Golden Gate Park on Saturday Morning
What I have here at this moment
is neither an ocean
nor a pond
but a lake made of grass.
A bowl of green,
silky translucence
hue fresh as a sweet lime
not yet fallen
from the tree
in the season’s joy.
The surface of this field
is like a paper lantern
lit from within,
a spreading radiance
unmasking
the white and gold figures
etched from its blaze.
As I peer down,
these distant shapes
kick and scramble,
scurry and glide
across the glistening sheen
as somewhere,
in the sudden breeze,
a lantern sways and turns,
bobs and swirls
in the constant, spreading light.
Recently, I spent a morning in Golden Gate Park, and took some time just trying to be aware of what was before me. Here are some of the things I noted:
The unexamined calligraphy of the pine needles flung over the pavement of the path.
The silken sheen of the newly erupted grass.
A lime green ebullience, color of renewal.
Two martial arts practitioners—he is the pupil, hesitant sword in hand, she is the teacher confidently flourishing a scarf-topped fan, gray haired master showing the way.
A small mechanical toy boat, carving the lake into undulant segments as it buzzes insistently here and there.
Suddenly, a swath of exploding diamonds moves across the lake from right to left—like an alien life form, limbless, shapeless, disjointed, luminous particles moving together in telepathic union toward some consensual destination.
(And then a thought popped in):
When all else fails, when external images fade, whenever physical agility is itself in question, there is still language, endless refuge and consolation. As long as we can say, we are alive, abiding in some curious mid-region between thing and symbol.
It is now five past twelve and suddenly the lake is still. The buzz saw voice of the battery-powered toy boat is silent, the toy taken away, the gulls sit in quiet meditation around the perimeter of the lake. The swordsman and his female instructor, as well as the strollers, the mothers with their baby carriages—all have vanished. There is an almost alarming calm, an eerie silence, as if news of a calamity had spread and everyone had fled for safety. Only one elderly walker remains. He pauses quietly, peers over into the water, and then softly resumes his slow perambulation.
Where has everyone gone?
Perhaps they are all still here, but invisible, and I have died, unaware, in this seemingly deserted place.
Then, later, I wrote this poem:
Gazing at the Soccer Field below:
Golden Gate Park on Saturday Morning
What I have here at this moment
is neither an ocean
nor a pond
but a lake made of grass.
A bowl of green,
silky translucence
hue fresh as a sweet lime
not yet fallen
from the tree
in the season’s joy.
The surface of this field
is like a paper lantern
lit from within,
a spreading radiance
unmasking
the white and gold figures
etched from its blaze.
As I peer down,
these distant shapes
kick and scramble,
scurry and glide
across the glistening sheen
as somewhere,
in the sudden breeze,
a lantern sways and turns,
bobs and swirls
in the constant, spreading light.
