A Poet for This Day - Tom McGrath: Part IV of VI “Poem” I don’t belong in this century—who does? In my time, summer came someplace in June— The cutbanks blazing with roses, the birds brazen, and the astonished Pastures frisking with young calves . . . That was in the country— I don’t mean another country, I mean in the country: And the country is lost. I don’t mean just lost to me, Nor in the way of metaphorical loss—it’s lost that way too— No; nor in no sort of special case: I mean Lost. Now, down below, in the fire and stench, the city Is building its shell: elaborate levels of emptiness Like some sea-animal building toward its extinction. And the citizens, unserious and full of virtue, Are hunting for bread, or money, or a prayer, And I behold them, and this season of man, without love. If it were not a joke, it would be proper to laugh. —Curious how that rat’s nest holds together— Distracting . . . Without it there might be, still, The gold wheel and the silver, the sun and the moon, The season’s ancient assurance under the unstable stars Our fiery companions . . . And trees, perhaps, and the sound Of the wild and living water hurrying out of the hills. Without these, I have you for my talisman: Sun, moon, the four seasons, The true voice of the mountains. Now be (The city revolving in its empty shell, The night moving in from the East) —Be thou these things.
Posted on: Thu, 11 Sep 2014 13:18:24 +0000
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