Friday, July 2, 2010

that dirt we call earth

Grabbed this off of larabee's and liza site. Starts outs so simply, grows quietly luminous by the end.

The Simple Truth (by Philip Levine)

I bought a dollar and a half's worth of small red potatoes,
took them home, boiled them in their jackets
and ate them for dinner with a little butter and salt.
Then I walked through the dried fields
on the edge of town. In middle June the light
hung on in the dark furrows at my feet,
and in the mountain oaks overhead the birds
were gathering for the night, the jays and mockers
squawking back and forth, the finches still darting
into the dusty light. The woman who sold me
the potatoes was from Poland; she was someone
out of my childhood in a pink spangled sweater and sunglasses
praising the perfection of all her fruits and vegetables
at the road-side stand and urging me to taste
even the pale, raw sweet corn trucked all the way,
she swore, from New Jersey. "Eat, eat" she said,
"Even if you don't I'll say you did."
Some things
you know all your life. They are so simple and true
they must be said without elegance, meter and rhyme,
they must be laid on the table beside the salt shaker,
the glass of water, the absence of light gathering
in the shadows of picture frames, they must be
naked and alone, they must stand for themselves.
My friend Henri and I arrived at this together in 1965
before I went away, before he began to kill himself,
and the two of us to betray our love. Can you taste
what I'm saying? It is onions or potatoes, a pinch
of simple salt, the wealth of melting butter, it is obvious,
it stays in the back of your throat like a truth
you never uttered because the time was always wrong,
it stays there for the rest of your life, unspoken,
made of that dirt we call earth, the metal we call salt,
in a form we have no words for, and you live on it.


Margaret said...

I love this poem;
heard it on a poetry-audio-CD I picked up from the library and listened to over and over again on the drives to school during winter;
I had forgotten about it; thanks for reminding.

Fresca said...

"the metal we call salt"

Happy Birthday, early.
Don't rupture anything now blowing that digeridoo. :)

Clowncar said...

I had never heard it, Margaret, though I've encountered Levine before and liked him (I actually read a criticism in the NYer he was "too simple" which of course made me like him even more). I like the way his poems tend to explain things, the natural world especially.

A wonderful line, that. Thanks for the birthday wishes, Fresca, though it is still a few weeks away. Haven't ruptured anything yet. Still can't do the drone, though I have learend to make different sounds by making different vowel sounds with my mouth. It's very fun to play.

Fresca said...

maybe next, the vuvuzela? : )