This is the seventh in a series of columns that feature a much-loved poem, and a second poem that speaks to, or resonates with, the first poem. This week’s poem is “Requiem,” written by Robert Louis Stevenson. This poem was carved into Stevenson’s gravestone. The line that attracted me was “Glad did I live and gladly die.” Some critics consider this a bold lie, but I prefer to think of
At this late stage If the shoe fits Buy it. For comfort is harder to find And a little jig Can jar the memory To green fields and pop flies And star flecks of first love. Maybe even buy a second pair (the first you might yet outwear) So you won’t lose pace And become trampled In the long procession To that promised playground. But maybe not. Double vision is
Honesty changes everything, but its hard to see when we refuse to look. Anger and resentment steal our hours when we’re trapped inside our fears. Friendship matters. Appearances don’t. Misguided judgments are as useless as the imaginary ideals we impose on others. Chiseling a proper likeness from marble is still working with stone. I used to ask others to serve my fantasy. Now I focus on my own symphony of thoughts to
See how they walk To and from their breaking homes In this twilit town Where naked oaks Sketch the streets And a swirling of crows Settles in clumps On the high limbs Above the old folks home, Cataracts in its vacant eyes. One girl, collar to the cold Hurries home Under sudden streetlights Ushered now by these shadows That follow, switch forward, fall back… Past, present, future. One, two, three
We’re little clusters of bundled energy, buzzing to an imitation of consciousness between birth and death.
The heart does what it wants. The earth does too. The future won’t remember. Tesla created wireless power in Colorado Springs in 1899. The heart does what it wants. The earth does too. The future won’t remember.
