Wednesday, May 26, 2010

The World As It Is

Artsparker has a gift for connections: verbal, visual, artistic, personal. She pointed me toward a startlingly lovely poem at the Larabee and Liza site a couple days back to read Carolyn Miller's poem, copied below. There are "no ladders, no descending angels" in my worldview, so it had some resonance with me, in particular the comfort found in sideways Orion, trembling Venus, firefly Jupiter. Or, to use John Prine's more plain language, "to believe in this living is just a hard way to go."

The World as It is

No ladders, no descending angels, no voice
out of the whirlwind, no rending
of the veil, or chariot in the sky—only
water rising and falling in breathing springs
and seeping up through limestone, aquifers filling
and flowing over, russet stands of prairie grass
and dark pupils of black-eyed Susans. Only
the fixed and wandering stars: Orion rising sideways,
Jupiter traversing the southwest like a great firefly,
Venus trembling and faceted in the west—and the moon,
appearing suddenly over your shoulder, brimming
and ovoid, ripe with light, lifting slowly, deliberately,
wobbling slightly, while far below, the faithful sea
rises up and follows.

-Carolyn Miller

Thank you Susan. Thank you Laura. Thank you Carolyn.


Shayna Prentice said...

A most lovely tribute to these three very special women. John Prine always gets right to the heart, too!

Anonymous said...

That's beautiful. Thank you for sharing!

slommler said...

Beautiful poem...thanks for sharing

Land of shimp said...

That was very beautiful. It also reminded me of something strange, clowncar, so I'll just go ahead and tell you.

Being strange in the comment sections of others being something of a habit for me.

It reminded me of the most beautiful horse I have ever seen. Long ago, before I crushed a heel and had it reconstructed, I used to ride, English actually. One of the place I rode had a beautiful gelding, who was primarily white, but a strange iridescent, like a pearl. Over that was the lightest sprinkling of a rust read, concentrating on his forehead, trailing down his neck, and disappearing in that strangely reflective white. It was joined by some black also, the marks no bigger than a freckle on a person's face would be.

His coat always made me think of a negative of the night sky, and I loved his name more than any other animals name before or since:

Red Sun's Last Rising

He was also entirely blind.

Clowncar said...

It's a beautiful trio of women. And that John Prine song (I guess alotta folks think of it as a Bonnie Raitt song) has been in my head for days.

Sure thing Beth. Thanks for stopping by!

Hugs right back atcha, Sue.

Shimp, you tell the best stories! Someone should devote a website simply to your collected comments on other sites. Such a gorgeous name: Red Sun's Last Rising.

ArtSparker said...

I love making connections.

Wallace Stevens handled this theme rather more wryly in his poem "An ordinary Evening in New Haven"

Clowncar said...

Thank you for connecting.

I like Wallace too. Ever read Sunday morning?

"Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch."

Love that poem.

Wanderlust Scarlett said...

That's so very beautiful, and... the timing is nothing short of ironic.

Thank you and Susan, and Laura, and most of all, Carolyn.

Scarlett & Viaggiatore