Thursday, February 05, 2009

requiescat in lux

two days, a loss, a burial, a marriage feast, refusal, the end of light
the still, nothing, still, still, the night still

bird over a churning sea under a calm sky
sunspark on wave, bellows of sand and surf

redbird in greentree, the ever sun spinning overhead
nick in carpet, nickelplating on hand and sunrefracted windowshine

I sit in the sunshadow of the stainedglass window
listen to your memorial service, gone friend, and remember

times for tea, for sitting on sunlit decks, for riding, eating road in
airflung golden sports car convertible roadster wheels spinning

the sun blasts gold through the top of the tall window
and a bare winter treebranch casts a thin black line on the glass

I've been here too often, this sad place, what endures is the laughter
what I remember is the sunlight and the smile under that sun

let the sunstruck light into our hearts, whatever gods may linger in us
let us remember not a sermon of fear but lessons of company comrade

let my eyes always lift to the windowlight, the blaze of gold
rather than bowing my head in unnecessary and unsought humility

because what we are, whatever god is, it's all in the light, that light, this light
here, now, still here, this light, filling me, gold on the glass ice of winter

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Blogger Dave King said...

So much poetry equates to the T.V. dramatist's slow fade. Your quick cutting worked well.

8:12 AM  
Blogger Art Durkee said...

Huh, Dave, that's a very interesting thought. I certainly feel like a cinematographer at times when I write, and I've thought many times that a poetry is possible to make that's a sequence of images out of which story or scenario emerges. You make me feel like I might be on the right track after all!


9:08 AM  

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