Brent Cotton |
Night Sounds
And now the dark comes on, all full of chitter noise.
Birds huggermugger crowd the trees,
the air thick with their vesper cries,
and bats, snub seven-pointed kites,
skitter across the lake, swing out,
squeak, chirp, dip, and skim on skates
of air, and the fat frogs wake and prink
wide-lipped, noisy as ducks, drunk
on the bloozy black, gloating chink-chunk.
And now on the narrow beach we defend ourselves from dark.
And now the dark comes on, all full of chitter noise.
Birds huggermugger crowd the trees,
the air thick with their vesper cries,
and bats, snub seven-pointed kites,
skitter across the lake, swing out,
squeak, chirp, dip, and skim on skates
of air, and the fat frogs wake and prink
wide-lipped, noisy as ducks, drunk
on the bloozy black, gloating chink-chunk.
And now on the narrow beach we defend ourselves from dark.
The cooking done, we build our firework
bright and hot and less for outlook
than for magic, and lie in our blankets
while night nickers around us. Crickets
chorus hallelujahs; paws, quiet
and quick as raindrops, play on the stones
expertly soft, run past and are gone;
fish pulse in the lake; the frogs hoarsen.
Now every voice of the hour -- the known,
the supposed, the strange,
the mindless, the witted, the never seen --
sing, thrum, impinge, and rearrange
endlessly; and debarred from sleep we wait
for the birds, importantly silent,
for the crease of first eye-licking light,
for the sun, lost long ago and sweet.
By the lake, locked black away and tight,
we lie, day creatures, overhearing night.
Maxine Kumin
bright and hot and less for outlook
than for magic, and lie in our blankets
while night nickers around us. Crickets
chorus hallelujahs; paws, quiet
and quick as raindrops, play on the stones
expertly soft, run past and are gone;
fish pulse in the lake; the frogs hoarsen.
Now every voice of the hour -- the known,
the supposed, the strange,
the mindless, the witted, the never seen --
sing, thrum, impinge, and rearrange
endlessly; and debarred from sleep we wait
for the birds, importantly silent,
for the crease of first eye-licking light,
for the sun, lost long ago and sweet.
By the lake, locked black away and tight,
we lie, day creatures, overhearing night.
Maxine Kumin
“And now the dark comes on”, a
change takes place, mysterious nocturnal creatures invade our once familiar
daylight world. Kumin prefaces each stage with "and now",
"and now", "now". It's as if we are the audience for a
performance of the night orchestra. Under cover of darkness it sings,
thrums, nickers, chirps, squeaks, prinks - and every hour has a voice, a
part in the chorus. Notice how the people build their fire "less for
outlook than for magic", I love that. Isn't that what we build fires for
mostly while camping, or evenings in the back yard - sure, we need warmth and
food and light, but we also need magic. This poem reminds me of the drama of
darkness, how it gives us mystery and music and a sense of familiar things
becoming strange, of the known changing form and becoming new. Sometimes we
don't recognize the wonder in front of us until we observe it from a different
point of view. Sometimes we need the dark to show us what we have never seen.
No comments:
Post a Comment