Wednesday, March 09, 2016
Recently I wrote about my friend Jeannine Keenan, who died a few weeks ago. Jeannine was, among other things, a gifted poet. Here is one of her poems:
I do not know whether it matters whether the gods under the sea
are blue or whether the triune God is one or three. Only this:
here in this wilderness I sense a presence in the soft green
haze of trees, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine––
although it is yet too early in spring for blooming.
The long shadow of the moon bleeds into light.
And in this new day there will be nothing here that was not here
yesterday, only the spring a little riper and perhaps
a thrush in a tamarack tree calling
for a mate that will not hear or come.
Fallen seeds carried in the bellies of birds to a fallow
or fertile ground, and fireflies drifting on currents of wind,
their small lights invisible in the glare of sun.
Caterpillars woven in sack-like layers of leaves.
But after this long night of wandering I move into a silence
that becomes sound. From inside my body the awful whirling
of wings, the chattering of beaks, and I am opened,
at last yield myself to light, and the birds
nestled so long in my head take flight.
(from her book Entelechy)
(picture found on internet)