rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Ending Silence

The mottled clouds are illuminated by periodic flashes of silent lightning for hours. The only sounds are the crickets, and the breeze sighing in the pines. Only when gray morning approaches does a peal of thunder at last break the stillness, and then a little rain begins to fall. The birds wake and chirp.

I'm still in a Randall Jarrell mood, so...



Sunday Verse

A Country Life

by Randall Jarrell


A bird that I don't know,
Hunched on his light-pole like a scarecrow,
Looks sideways out into the wheat
The wind waves under the waves of heat.
The field is yellow as egg-bread dough
Except where (just as though they'd let
It live for looks) a locust billows
In leaf-green and shade-violet,
A standing mercy.
The bird calls twice, "Red clay, red clay";
Or else he's saying, "Directly, directly."
If someone came by I could ask,
Around here all of them must know --
And why they live so and die so --
Or why, for once, the lagging heron
Flaps from the little creek's parched cresses
Across the harsh-grassed, gullied meadow
To the black, rowed evergreens below.
They know and they don't know.
To ask, a man must be a stranger --
And asking, much more answering, is dangerous;
Asked about it, who would not repent
Of all he ever did and never meant,
And think a life and its distresses,
Its random, clutched-for, homefelt blisses,
The circumstances of an accident?
The farthest farmer in a field,
A gaunt plant grown, for seed, by farmers,
Has felt a longing, lorn urbanity
Jailed in his breast; and, just as I,
Has grunted, in his old perplexity,
A standing plea.
From the tar of the blazing square
The eyes shift, in their taciturn
And unavowing, unavailable sorrow.
Yet the intonation of a name confesses
Some secrets that they never meant
To let out to a soul; and what words would not dim
The bowed and weathered heads above the denim
Or the once-too-often washed wash dresses?
They are subdued to their own element.
One day
The red, clay face
Is lowered to the naked clay;
After some words, the body is forsaken
The shadows lengthen, and a dreaming hope
Breathes, from the vague mound, Life;
From the grove under the spire
Stars shine, and a wandering light
Is kindled for the mourner, man.
The angel kneeling with the wreath
Sees, in the moonlight, graves.




The thunder is coming more frequently. Must shut machines down.
Subscribe

  • Reset Nineteen, Day Fifteen

    Wednesday went quite pear-shaped. After waking up about five o'clock in the morning, I muddled through the morning and then hit a wall around half…

  • Reset Nineteen, Day Fourteen

    A nap started around ten o'clock Tuesday evening turned into almost a full night's sleep, and I got up not long after five o'clock this morning.…

  • Reset Nineteen, Day Thirteen

    Monday managed to be an exhausting day even though I did next to nothing. My niece went shopping for me, but the store was out of several items I…

  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 0 comments