|beautiful poem. the last line describes my recent disposition perfectly.
||[Oct. 8th, 2007|01:21 pm]
It's really over now, summer, I feel
the next thing in the heaviness
of the grapes as they stagger downwards
toward the ripeness
they were born for.
Someone with more power than us
can't take his mind off war.
He wants us to believe power is knowledge.
No one ever told him the truth,
how bewildered he looks, how sad,
and how desperately he seems to long
for danger. Meanwhile, light surrenders
by 6:30 P.M. and rusty barbed-wire fences reappear
where once summer grass covered them
as an ocean covers a treasure sunk long ago.
Not an ounce left of that summer heat that wants of us
only the pleasure of our shirtless company,
no more red poppies like little fragile gods
that have dedicated themselves to ditches
and other lost places where gods
so rarely appear. Yes, the gods have shriveled up
and though the man who sells ice cream in the mercato
still stands behind his chocolate, his lime,
his luscious vanilla and hopes for the best,
in his heart he knows.
Soon the man with the power will point his finger
and husbands will be ordered to put on their uniforms.
Soon, tears and ash, bent heads, fields with the look
of raw wounds, raw wounds with the look
of abandoned fields.
It is the season when olive trees bend heavily
in the cold wind, scraping the ground
as if inviting earth to touch them.
Is it too late for that now? Too late
for one living creature
to touch another? The grandmother
holding the baby by the fountain has no choice
but to remember how happy
it is possible to be. The street cleaner
has the thoughtful brooding look
of a philosopher whose work has been unjustly ignored
for years. He drags his broom behind him
past the drugstore, past the newspaper stand,
past the shadowy boxes loaded down
with oranges from Morocco, cherries from Bari,
walks slowly back and forth across the square
refusing to clean what will only get dirty again.
Jim Moore, from Lightning at Dinnerr