Sunday, June 23, 2013

THE GREEN WONDER OF JUNE, the molten hand of VENUS & "...the covenant of duskbirds..."

I don't think the SuperMoon will be our entree tonight. I'll check it again at midnight.  The sky is like thick custard--I offer you instead some dessert:  the surface of Venus and this exquisite poem by Stacie Cassarino:

The way the sky looked in Charras today

                                                                   Summer Solstice

                                               I wanted to see where beauty comes from
                                              without you in the world, hauling my heart
                                                across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
                                                      my pockets filling with flowers.
                                                               Then I remembered,
                                                      it’s you I miss in the brightness
                                                      and body of every living name:
                                                       rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
                                                   You are the green wonder of June,
                                                    root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
                                            When I finally understand that people fail
                                              at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
                                                    the paper wings of the dragonfly
                                         aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
                                             If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
                                                    equatorial. There is still so much
                                                    I want to know: what you believe
                                                      can never be removed from us,
                                                 what you dreamed on Walnut Street
                                            in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
                                                      learning pleasure on your own.
                                              Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
                                          are we kind to each other, do we surrender
                                               to what the mind cannot think past?
                                               Where is the evidence I will learn
                                                          to be good at loving?
                                              The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
                                             for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
                                                           There are violet hills,
                                               there is the covenant of duskbirds.
                                              The moon comes over the mountain
                                             like a big peach, and I want to tell you
                                            what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
                                       North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
                                                  and the way you go into yourself,
                                                  calling my half-name like a secret.
                                               I stand between taproot and treespire.
                                                        Here is the compass rose
                                                      to help me live through this.
                                                 Here are twelve ways of knowing
                                               what blooms even in the blindness
                                                  of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
                                           viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
                                                      pleading do not forget me.
                                                     We hunger for eloquence .
                                                     We measure the isopleths.
                                         I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
                                          The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
                                            Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
                                            an effulgence. Let me come back
                                          whole, let me remember how to touch you
                                                         before it is too late.

  - Stacie Cassarino
A Murmuration of Starlings
Some Doves at Dusk
Created from data from the Magellan Spacecraft -
Space in Space - Sammy Atherton, 2nd

1 comment:

  1. Happy belated summer solstice to you both. Been thinking of you and must reconnect as I feel we have drifted a little and the drift must be rejoined.. So will be in touch but you are in my thoughts so you are in touch in many ways. Sure you know that anyway. Love the poem - very meaningful, take care and much love - Anthea xx