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.

Winter Night

Craig Stephens

Winter Night

  It snowed and snowed, the whole world over,

  Snow swept the world from end to end.

  A candle burned on the table;

  A candle burned.

  As during summer midges swarm

  To beat their wings against a flame

  Out in the yard the snowflakes swarmed

  To beat against the window pane

  The blizzard sculptured on the glass

  Designs of arrows and of whorls.

  A candle burned on the table;

  A candle burned.

  Distorted shadows fell

  Upon the lighted ceiling:

  Shadows of crossed arms,of crossed legs-

  Of crossed destiny.

  Two tiny shoes fell to the floor

  And thudded.

  A candle on a nightstand shed wax tears

  Upon a dress.

  All things vanished within

  The snowy murk-white,hoary.

  A candle burned on the table;

  A candle burned.

  A corner draft fluttered the flame

  And the white fever of temptation

  Upswept its angel wings that cast

  A cruciform shadow

  It snowed hard throughout the month

  Of February, and almost constantly

  A candle burned on the table;

  A candle burned.

Boris Pasternak 
 

Mostly because it is snowing madly as I write this, and I have a candle burning. I like this poem’s mesmeric repetition which has the same effect on me that staring at a candle does, or watching snow fall. Also the allusions to stories, and that feeling of hidden things, “cruciform shadows”, as if forecasting something to come. All this made more sense to me when I learned it is from Pasternak’s “Dr. Zhivago”. (I read it years ago, and to be honest, it wasn’t to my taste. I have no recollection of the poems written by its main character, but I’m intrigued now.  I may have to go back through the book and remind myself why the candle was burning and what’s going on with the shoes and the dress.  Or not. I rather like not knowing.) Another thing about this poem is that of course it’s translated from Russian. Translated poetry is a strange animal –  in poetry every word is carefully considered and placed - how can it truly be translated? Some words do not even exist in other languages. But because I don’t know what I’m missing, I can just enjoy what’s here. The image of snowflakes “swarming”, for instance, is brilliant. I look out my window, and that’s exactly what I see.