The path of pathlessness

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C u r r e n t l y

Southern Summer Sky

Columbia, South Carolina

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Wind finds the northwest gap, fall comes.

Today, under gray cloud-scud and over gray

Wind-flicker of forest, in perfect formation, wild geese

Head for a land of warm water, the boom, the lead pellet.

Some crumple in air, fall. Some stagger, recover control,

Then take the last glide for a far glint of water. None

Knows what has happened. Now, today, watching

How tirelessly V upon V arrows the season's logic,

Do I know my own story? At least, they know

When the hour comes for the great wing-beat. Sky-strider,

Star-strider -- they rise, and the imperial utterance,

Which cries out for distance, quivers in the wheeling sky.

That much they know, and in their nature know

The path of pathlessness, with all the joy

Of destiny fulfilling its own name.

I have known time and distance, but not why I am here.

Path of logic, path of folly, all

The same -- and I stand, my face lifted now skyward.

Hearing the high beat, my arms outstretched in the tingling

Process of transformation, and soon tough legs,

With folded feet, trail in the sounding vacuum of passage,

And my heart is impacted with a fierce impulse

To unwordable utterance --

Toward sunset, at a great height.

= Robert Penn Warren =

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Happy Wednesday

Right onward drive

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T o r n   I n   W h o l e

Lake Murray

Columbia, South Carolina

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As the bird trims her to the gale,

I trim myself to the storm of time,

I man the rudder, reef the sail,

Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime:

"Lowly faithful, banish fear,

Right onward drive unharmed;

The port, well worth the cruise, is near,

And every wave is charmed."

= Ralph Waldo Emerson =

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Happy Tuesday

Someway in the corners

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T h e   F e e l i n g   I s   M u t u a l

Greenoaks Memorial Park

Baton Rouge, Louisiana

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A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? ... I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child ... the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same,
I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward ... and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed,
and luckier.

= Walt Whitman =

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Happy Monday

No more in the night

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I t   I s   W r i t t e n

Elmwood Cemetery

Columbia, South Carolina

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Like a blind man who walks in the darkness
I had longed, I had searched for the light
Then I met the Master
Now I walk no more in the night.

For all things were changed when He found me
A new day broke through all around me
For I met the Master
Now I belong to Him.

Like a babe when it cries for its mother
Like a child I was helpless, alone
Then I met the Master
Now I am one of His own.

For all things were changed when He found me
A new day broke through all around me
For I met the Master
Now I belong to Him.

= Mosie Lister =

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But what things were gain to me,

those I counted loss for Christ.

For our conversation is in heaven;

from whence also we look for the Saviour,

the Lord Jesus Christ.

Philippians 3:7 and 3:20

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Happy Sunday

And put a flower on it

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P e t a l   T o   T h e   M i d d l e

Elmwood Cemetery

Columbia, South Carolina

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We do not play on Graves --

Because there isn't Room --

Besides -- it isn't even -- it slants

And People come --

And put a Flower on it --

And hang their faces so --

We're fearing that their Hearts will drop --

And crush our pretty play --

And so we move as far

As Enemies -- away --

Just looking round to see how far

It is -- Occasionally --

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Saturday