I love the work of poet Charles Wright, and I loved the two poems from his book Caribou, reprinted on Poetry Daily today.
My Old Clinch Mountain Home
I keep on hoping a theme will bite me,
and leave its two wounds
In my upper arm and in my heart.
A story line of great destiny,
or fate at least.
It’s got to be serious, as my poor flesh is serious.
So, dog, show me your teeth and bite me.
Show me some love.
Such little consequence, our desires.
Better to be the last chronicler of twilight, and its aftermath.
Better to let your hair swing loose, and dust up the earth.
I’d like to be a prophet,
with animals at my heels.
I’d like to have a staff, and issue out water wherever it fell.
Lord, how time does alter us,
it goes without saying.
There is an afterlight that follows us,
and fades as clockticks fade.
Eventually we stand on it puddled under our shoes.
The darkness that huddles there
Is like the dew that settles upon the flowers,
invisible, cold, and everywhere.
When the wind comes, and the snow repeats us,
how like our warped lives it is,
Melting objects, disappearing sounds
Like lichen on gnarled rocks.
For we have lived in the wind, and loosened ourselves like ice melt.
Nothing can hold us, I’ve come to know.
Nothing, I say.
–Charles Wright, from Caribou, Farrar, Straus, and Giroux