Goldwing Moth

 

   

 

Goldwing Moth

 

A goldwing moth is between the scissors and the ink bottle 

on the desk.

Last night it flew hundreds of circles around a glass bulb

and a flame wire.

The wings are a soft gold; it is the gold of illuminated

initials in manuscripts of the medieval monks.

 

Carl Sandburg 

 

I puzzle over this. 

 

The scissors and the ink bottle,

that circling a thing of light, an incandescence -

is this showing us the writer at his work?

Is the goldwing moth made holy by its object, 

by the light which compels it?

I go back over the poem, which only seems simple.

Wingtip

               

Robin Bouttell

 

Wingtip

 

The birds – are they worth remembering?
Is flight a wonder and one wingtip a
space marvel?
When will man know what birds know?

 

 

Carl Sandburg

 

from "Rainbows are Made"

 

 

"When will man know what birds know?" Not a small question. Is there a person who hasn't wondered what a bird knows? (Breathes there a man with soul so dead...?!!) It's not a simple question - putting ourselves behind a bird's eyes, with the vision of a bird, what is the sky, what are clouds, what is rain to a bird? What is that moment of tipping from sky to earth? That skimming across an air current, that smack from a gust of wind? And what is the instinct to sing? Is it joy? Is it speech? Are birds artists or carpenters? What do birds think?

And does it matter? That's rhetorical, that question. Just like, "The birds - are they worth remembering?" Certainly they are. Sandburg wouldn't have written the poem if he didn't know so. It's more than rhetoric, it's close to being a laugh. Are the birds worth remembering?!!

"Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And yet not one of them shall fall to the ground without your Father knowing." (Matthew 10:29) He knows what they know. He can see through their eyes. It has made me wonder over the years - is there a unique relationship between animals and their Creator? Do they know things about Him that we don't? Is that possible? I don't mean these questions in a sentimental way - Sandburg writes simply, plainly, (a child could understand) but his thoughts are deep.

 

 

Luck Is a Star

Quang Ho

Luck is a star.

Money is a plaything.

Time is a storyteller.

And the sky goes blue with mornings.

And the sky goes bronze with sunsets.

And the fireborn - they go far -

Being at home in fire.

Carl Sandburg 

 Sandburg throws down this "something-is-something else" with such ease. "Luck is a star"? Okay, if he means something far away and beautiful that we dream of reaching, I can follow. "Money is a plaything", yes, money is like that, something we use and move around and pass and receive it very much as we would pieces in a game. And also, a plaything, not the deep-down stuff of life (in spite of all talk to the contrary). "Time is a storyteller", that's the best one. So full of thoughts and ideas - I could chew on it a good while. How Time spins stories, how it uses the sky as a backdrop for its drama. Sky goes blue, sky goes bronze; Sandburg makes such sweeping word/image gestures it knocks me back. And then the kicker - "the fireborn" - with just one word, how he changes us! We're not put-upon, victims of fate or chance, we're the Fireborn. We're characters in this story. Above us, the sky changes colour, the stars call us, the money moves from hand to hand, and we are tested by fire. What will it prove us to be? How far will we go? Only Time, the storyteller, knows.

 

For You

Andrew Wyeth

	For You The peace of great doors be for you. Wait at the knobs, at the panel oblongs. Wait for the great hinges. The peace of great churches be for you. Where the players of loft pipe organs Practice old lovely fragments, alone. The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather. The peace of great prairies be for you. Listen among windplayers in cornfields, The wind learning over its oldest music. The peace of great seas be for you. Wait on a hook of land, a rock footing For you, wait in the salt wash. The peace of great mountains be for you, The sleep and the eyesight of eagles, Sheet mist shadows and the long look across. The peace of great hearts be for you, Valves of the blood of the sun, Pumps of the strongest wants we cry. The peace of great silhouettes be for you, Shadow dancers alive in your blood now, Alive and crying, “Let us out, let us out.” The peace of great changes be for you. Whisper, Oh beginners in the hills. Tumble, Oh cubs –tomorrow belongs to you. The peace of great loves be for you, Rain, soak these roots; wind, shatter the dry rot. Bars of sunlight, grips of the earth, hug these. The peace of great ghosts be for you, Phantoms of night-gray eyes, ready to go To the fog-star dumps, to the fire-white doors. Yes, the peace of great phantoms be for you, Phantom iron men, mothers of bronze, Keepers of the lean clean breeds. Carl Sandburg From Carl Sandburg to all of us embarking on the open door of 2019. The peace of old and new, and new appreciation of old. Old books, old places, old earth, old landscapes and seascapes, old horizons, old journeys – may they all be new to us. May we begin and begin and begin again. Each day a new moment. Happy New Year!

Nocturne Cabbage

Susannah Blaxill

Nocturne Cabbage

Cabbages catch at the moon.
It is late summer, no rain, the pack of the soil
cracks open, it is a hard summer.
In the night the cabbages catch at the moon, the
leaves drip silver, the rows of cabbages are
series of little silver waterfalls in the moon.

Carl Sandburg

from "Rainbows are Made"

Cabbages in the moonlight. That’s right. If you don’t think such a thing can be beautiful, you’d be amazed. Cabbages leaves have a strange surface – water droplets bead together on them like translucent pearls, and the feel of them at times is close to that of human skin. And as Carl Sandburg shows us, in certain light they have an unearthly sheen. I love this poem for the way it takes the veil from the commonplace. Cabbages, of all things, beautiful? Oh yes. More than that. Magic.