I was stumbling around in poetry books today unsure of what I was looking for. I've just returned from visiting my sister in CT after she had microsurgery on a herniated disc. We went into NYC and saw the musical, Hair, much to my delight. This musical is still quite edgy and must have been incredibly controversial (to say nothing of downright lewd) in 1969. I never really knew the story that united the songs I had played years ago. Boy wants to break out of his parents confining world, wants peace and love and freedom and hair, but gets drafted, and unlike the others who burn their draft card, he goes to Vietnam (because his parents will be proud of him?, because he is trying to do good? be good?) and dies. The music is great. Audience up on stage at the end singing let the sun shine. Really fun. Hard to come home to such a lousy day today.
So, I'm feeling a little unsure today--about the direction of the poem to include, about the direction of my work, life,--ok, just bloody unsure. so here's a poem about ...unknowing. I htink it is lovely.
Evening Hieroglyph (Li-Young Lee)
Birds keep changing places in the empty tree
like decimals or numberals reconfiguring
some word which, spoken, might sound the key
that rights the tumblers in the iron lock
that keeps the gate dividing me from me.
Late January. The birds face all
one direction and flit
from branch to branch.
They raise no voice
against or for oncoming dark, no answer
to questions asked by one
whose entire being seems a quiestion
posed to himself, one no longer new
on earth, unknowing, and yet,
still not the next thing.
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