The Second Day of Creation: an explanatory verse

I came across this ravishing image on Twitter by the photographer Pentti Sammallahati (Pentti, I sure hope you don't mind my showing a copy of your image here on my blog):




And then I composed this bit of explanatory verse:

An opening in the clouds Through which daylight Tears through more or less How the world appeared on The second day of creation
A negative statement almost entirely After the sky had been created and Began right away to block out light

The Stow Away

Down at the mouth

Of the creek just now

I ran into a neighbor

And her dog Farrell

A border collie

Docile and sweet

I was with my own

Dog Bayleigh

Who eyed Farrell

Cautiously

While I admired

The tranquil waters

Of Shinnecock Bay

A few ducks paddled

About 5 yards offshore

What a beautiful day

Better store it away in memory

My neighbor said to me

Where else am I going to put it

I thought to myself

But this was no time

For such a quip

I was transfixed

By the clarity of

The November horizon 

That seemed within reach

Even as it extended out

Towards the utter certainty 

Of seasonal death

Well why not write it down

And save it as a poem

A little acorn to stow away

I thought to myself

As I walked home

And of course that

Is exactly what I did

By stowing it away

As a poem


***************

A number of years ago I became familiar with the idea of moment work, as developed by the playwright and director Moisés Kaufman and the Tectonic Theater Company, which has brought to life much of his better work.  A moment is integral to way they construct each scene in their dramatic works (the best know of which, perhaps, is The Laramie Project), built moment to moment as it were.

While writing this poem, it occurred to me that poems no less than dramas may be constructed by a similar means. There's no reason to confine yourself to a single moment, as the great Li Bai might have done, as opposed to creating a succession of moments like pearls on a string. The string is easy enough but the pearl - that of course is the hard part.

The Rose Within (translation of a poem by Rilke)

The Rose Within

Where lies the interior

Of this outward display?

Over what ache spreads

Such a fine linen?

And what skies gleam

Above the inner seas

As the petals open,

So carefree, if you’ll

But look and see:

Looseness is the solution

In which they lie,

Yet unshakeable

By a trembling hand.

By dint of what effort

Holding themselves erect;

So much overflowing

And pouring out from

Daylight’s interior,

Always fuller and fuller

To their fullest extent,

Until the whole summer

Enfolds within a room

A room within a dream

Reply to Rilke

If a rose unfolding

Is a sign of the soul

There’s no inner withholding

That any true flower knows

It’s all in the baring as 

Each blossom grows

And the effortless giving of

What transparently shows

After a certain point, it's not quite enough to translate a poem; rather I find myself drawn into dialog.  For me this is particularly true with Rilke, whose ardency as a poet I greatly admire, but find myself not always completely aligned with in spirit.  As a bonus, I want to share with you a translation of a poem by Bai Juyi, one of my favorite Tang poets, on a similar theme:

Flower Without Flower

Flower without flower
Mist without mist
At midnight arriving
As Heaven's light dims

Dream of springtime fresh
But how long will it remain
A cloud lingers until dawn
Then disperses without a trace

花非花
花非花
雾非雾
夜半来
天明去
来如春
梦不多时
去似朝云
无觅处

Reply to Rilke ... About that Cloak

Isn’t it possible

That God’s true cloak

Is no cloak at all?

The golden mist covering

The field will dissipate

Not long after dawn

Nor need our hands

Hide the truth from our eyes

Once the mist is gone

Instead let them lie idle
Alongside or clasped 
In mudra or prayer
Not busy making
Or creating
Only abiding

***************

This poem is written in reply to Rilke's poem, God's True Cloak, from The Book of Hours.  You can read a beautiful translation of Rilke's poem here, by Joanna Macy and Anita Bowers.  What often happens to me when I read Rilke is that I'm filled with more with questions than answers.  He unsettles me, which I suppose is one measure of his greatness in the realm of the spirit.