poetry pocket: thank you, ross gay

you are the air of the now and gone, that says all you love will turn to dust, and will meet you there. do not raise your fist.

dear little voice,

if you had known, back then, as you came into this all, that you were dying,

when you first thought, instead, that anything can go— but just not what’s real, not you,— if you had known,

would you still have sat yourself, perhaps over the back of a bicycle, or maybe in the tall grass where the wind moves like a hush through clear water, or at the feet of someone you have loved, or at that place— you know which one, the one you just thought of—

under a red night, or a moon a pink you never noticed,

over a starless bridge, in music or in quiet, in early morning or in june,

would you have still taken the cup, the hands, the pen, the life?

if the possible had suddenly revealed itself to have been exactly that, all along:

that you are dying, that you are what’s real, and that you know, now,

would you have taken cover, or would you have walked through the splendour, kept your eyes open, curled your toes in the grass:

would you have said your brief and precious thanks?

Sid Grossman, Coney Island, 1940s

Thank You, Ross Gay

if you had known, back then, what you know now: that you adore this, but you’re dying, and you can’t bear it,

that it’s not violent cataclysm or falling volcano, but as quiet and as polite as any passing tragedy: it’s clocks, time, steady— the unavoidable hours,

would you have turned around and gone back up the quiet steps, avoided the light falling, tangerines and bed sheets and dancing, secrets and noon, lovers and agony,

or would you have followed it all still, motionless the way flying is, the salt in your body racing to be carried moving through whatever streets, under whatever moon, still dying, flying racing to the place where you ate your first blackberry, sat on rooftops mussed with eucalyptus and little red flowers, where you read your first poem, grilled your friends dinner, listened carefully to old stories and spotted planets and stars.

Women dancing quadrille on Midsummer’s Eve in Poadane ( Па́даны, Padany)

would you have wondered: what have i got to lose, anyway?

nothing but everything, piece by piece.

everything, day by day.

you could side-step the ache, ascend again those silent steps,

but to die once only: what if that is not enough?

if you need me, i’ll be clinging to the back of this bicycle, whether it moves or not.

love,

ars poetica.

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little voice: it is my belief that Poetry is a human birthright. my work will always be completely free, and takes considerable Time and Love to give to you throughout the week. if it has brought you Joy, consider buying me a book so that I may continue to tuck Words in your pocket:

unknown photographer