Showing posts with label Blessings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blessings. Show all posts

Tuesday, 7 May 2019

The Debtor


Mark Powell


The Debtor


I am debtor to all, to all am I bounden,
Fellowman and beast, season and solstice, darkness and light,
And life and death. On the backs of the dead,
See, I am borne, on lost errands led,
By spent harvests nourished. Forgotten prayers
To gods forgotten bring blessings upon me.
Rusted arrow and broken bow, look, they preserve me
Here in this place. The never-won stronghold
That sank in the ground as the years into time,
Slowly with all its men steadfast and watching,
Keeps me safe now. The ancient waters
Cleanse me, revive me. Victor and vanquished
Give me their passion, their peace and the field.
The meadows of Lethe shed twilight around me.
The dead in their silences keep me in memory,
Have me in hold. To all I am bounden.


Edwin Muir


Reading Eliot's "Little Gidding"  in the last post, brought "The Debtor" to mind. Where Eliot says "we are born with the dead", Muir says, "On the backs of the dead, see I am borne." Born and borne. Interesting. (And the word "borne" too, has two sides - carried, or bearing something.) Yes, the dead and their discoveries, their accomplishments, lift us up, elevate our life experience. But we also bear the consequences of their mistakes. It's a mixed bag. The speaker seems encouraged and strengthened by the harvests and prayers of the past, but he is nonetheless "held". That word calls up other words - "captive, "constrained". The way he writes, "The meadows of Lethe shed twilight around me. The dead in their silences keep me in memory.", seems to describe someone under a spell. Are we under a spell? Are we lifted up by those who have gone before, or held down? Or both? Is it a debt or an inheritance? Whichever, the poem feels of a quest, a journey - a battle, "Rusted arrow and broken bow, look, they preserve me..."  That sense of testing and being tried, of being half enchanted and half awake, of voices and people from many places and times speaking to us and lending their strength appeals to me. The (past) dead carry us, the present moment engages us, and the future draws us. Maybe "bounden" also means "committed", or "resolved". Perhaps the speaker has come awake, weighed his situation in life, and turned toward it, taking it up, intending to see it through. To see where the story goes. 



 

 

Sunday, 25 February 2018

Not-Yet

Gabriele Münter




Not-Yet

Morning of buttered toast;
of coffee, sweetened, with milk.

Out of the window,
snow-spruces step from their cobwebs.
Flurry of chickadees, feeding then gone.
A single cardinal stipples an empty branch –
one maple leaf lifted back.

I turn my blessings like photographs into the light;
over my shoulder the god of Not-Yet looks on:

Not-yet-dead, not-yet-lost, not-yet-taken.
Not-yet-shattered, not-yet-sectioned,
not-yet-strewn.


Ample litany, sparing nothing I hate or love,
not-yet-silenced, not-yet-fractured, not-yet-

Not-yet-not.

I move my ear a little closer to that humming figure,
I ask him only to stay.

Jane Hirshfield

This theme keeps coming up. I don’t know if I’m making that happen, or if there’s just a lot of poems out there about this and I’ve just happened upon a glut of them? ("What if This Road, by Sheenagh Pugh, "Otherwise", by Jane Kenyon, "Sometimes", by Sheenagh Pugh looks at it from the positive side, and there might even be more, further back in blog-time.) It's something I want to hear over and over anyway. I want equilibrium. It's balance I'm looking for. Something between being thankful for what is, knowing it could be 'otherwise', knowing things can and will change, like in "What if This Road", and that those changes will increase in difficulty, but also seeing this as a challenge and an opportunity for good things - as Sheenagh Pugh does in "Sometimes".  I love the back-and-forth between all these poems. But there's something not being said - a poem I'll need to add. What is my reason for feeling hope, for knowing good will come? After all, this is not a tightrope I walk, it's a thread I follow. Not the god of Not-Yet, but the I Am, the I Never Change, and I Make All Things New.