Nuance - There is no mystery In an onion—tear away All the tissue-thin Layers one by one. You’ll find Nothing irreducible.
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Supper or wisdom (spring poem)
The days warm in minor increments now
rain hisses on the pavement, spatters darkened windows,
runs through the gutters at night.
By day I dream I walk through the park,
sit for a moment, my face turned
toward the sun.
In my dream I remember how
last autumn I sat there,
in that red chair
(said as if I were pointing)
rereading Plato's Symposium, city
buses coughing exhaust on my feet.
Were the birds singing?
I don't recall.
Just the clamour of voices
arguing supper or wisdom, and really
who cares? We go on forever
searching for both.
Another "found" draft poem, scribbled out and hidden in my journal, this one dated 2 May 2016.
The photograph of the armchair was not taken in any park, of course, but in the Shelter Island Boat Yard in Richmond, BC in July 2014. Where had it come from? Who knows? But there it was, incongruous, settled in the shade of an old wooden trawler.