november 5. 2014
november 14, 2014
AN HOUR WITHOUT COLOR
An hour without color before snow
a tinge of brown in the oak leaf
a hint of green in the pine: "gray"
is too much to say of what's left
the sea dissolved into white sky
the woods a matted mass webbed with shreds
of last week's faded storm: then
it is snowing, it is now, I see
the particles making a grain across things
half visible half not, sifting
the light from the scene like a thief
who steals what we slowly realize
we can do without, are better off without:
the colors of things afflicting our eyes
CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
How many rooms one occupies to lead
a life!—the child's small cell, within earshot
of his parents' smothered moans; the college room
assigned by number, a poster-clad outpost
of freedom; the married man's bedchamber,
cramped scene of glad possession and sneaking sorrow;
the holiday rental, redolent of salt
and sun and other people's cast-off dakys'
the capstone mansion with its curtained pomp;
the businessman's hotel, a one-night stand
whose trim twin beds and TV sketch a dream
of habitation soon forgot; the chill
guest room; the pricey white hospital space,
where now the moaning has become one's own.
2 of 13 poems from
NOT CANCELLED YET
by JOHN UPDIKE
2003
a limited edition of letterpress
Limberlost Press 2003
—found in the free section of mesa public library, los alamos, nm
11.14.2014
No comments:
Post a Comment