Posts Tagged ‘new year’

To the New Year

January 1, 2015

By W. S. Merwin

With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning
so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible

via the Poetry Foundation. Happy 2015, everyone. ♥


New Year, and the amassing of absences

January 4, 2012

Snowshoe to Otter Creek

I’m mapping this new year’s vanishings:
lover, yellow house, the knowledge of surfaces.
This is not a story of return.
There are times I wish I could erase
the mind’s lucidity, the difficulty of Sundays,
my fervor to be touched
by a woman two Februarys gone. What brings the body
back, grieved and cloven, tromping these woods
with nothing to confide in? New snow reassumes
the circleting trees, the bridge above the creek
where I stand like a stranger to my life.
There is no single moment of loss, there is
an amassing. The disbeliever sleeps at an angle
in the bed. The orchard is a graveyard.
Is this the real end? Someone shoveling her way out
with cold intention? Someone naming her missing?

Stacie Cassarino, Zero at the Bone (2009)/here.

Oh, I am happy though. It’s a strange confluence of things.

A New Year

January 1, 2011

I have not been around. Just before I posted last, a beloved friend took her own life. Winter came early to Durham. I lost my way with the snow and the lack of her.

We had made promises, but it wasn’t enough. She tried to say goodbye, and I missed it. All I can hope–and it’s a stupid and indulgent thing–is that at the end she wasn’t lonely.

I loved that girl. And I know she knew that.

And now it’s a new year. Or will be, soon. And I am guarding its birth from my bed, all walled up as I am in blankets, with my notebooks and Joyce and Kundera and McGann for company. I have a pot of tea, I have a new pen, and I will have a new year by morning. I don’t know how to approach that. 2010 feels an unfinished year, curiously. It is the first I am reluctant to let go of, and not for happiness, but for lack. I would like to find something in 2010, something to recommend it before it goes.

But we all need our fallow time, and I comfort myself with my biding of it. To 2011 then, in which I will wreck chaos!