The Origin
of what happened is not in language—
of this much I am certain.
Six degrees south, six east—
and you have it: the bird
with the blue feathers, the brown bird—
same white breasts, same scaly
ankles. The waves between us—
house light and transform motion
into the harboring of sounds in language.—
Where there is newsprint
the fact of desire is turned from again—
and again. Just the sense
that what remains might well be held up—
later, as an ending.
Twice I have walked through this life—
once for nothing, once
for facts: fairy-shrimp in the vernal pool—
glassy-winged sharp-shooter
on the failing vines. Count me—
among the animals, their small
committed calls.—
Count me among
the living. My greatest desire—
to exist in a physical world.
— Jane Mead
Yet another poem that knocked it out of the park IMHO…Thanks once again to Lisa the Irreplaceable, friend and zealous poetic prospector who keeps sending me directions to the best in undiscovered (“new to me” that is) talent. Sometimes it is as easy as just consulting her Good Reads account which, amazingly enough, she finds time to replenish on a daily basis. (How does she do this AND go to law school?) Such a great resource for those of us who love poetry but are not practitioners. I feel like she’s gifted me with a seat in her box, right down there close to the game.
About the poet: Jane Mead is the author of two collections of poetry, House of Poured-Out Waters and The Lord and the General Din of the World. She received a Whiting Writers Award in 1992, a Lannan Writing Fellowship in 1999 and a Guggenheim Fellowship in 2002. She has worked on the fringes of the environmental movement for fifteen years and is currently poet-in-residence at Wake Forest University.
Does this Lisa by any chance post her poetry finds most generously on a blog, or are you her medium? If so, you’re sure a fine one.
I like that, being Lisa’s personal medium! Thanks QS.
On Saturday I attended the funeral of my sister’s mother-in-law. The woman’s three sons spoke. All three have been steeped in Mormon ideology, all three remain employed by the LDS Church. The funeral sermons were typical, as you can well imagine. But the youngest son, who has been physical decimated by poor mental health, managed a moment of honesty when he said that even though he had prayed for his mother’s death given her poor health, as he held her hand in the days before her death, he came to love the warmth and the feel of her body, and did not want to let go. “It is just not right,” he said, “that her body will leave us.” It was a rare moment in a Mormon funeral when with all the talk of spirits joining waiting spirits that someone would admit a love of the physical body and regret losing it. This poem reminded me of my love of the physical world and the occasional joy I feel for being a part of it.
Nice photo, too. Are you the photographer?
Janet, I am touched by your vignette. And having been to many Mormon funerals you are right–it isn’t part of the canonical treatment of the dead.
No I didn’t take the photo of that glorious fairy-shrimp. Wish I had the chance to capture such a gorgeous creature in motion.