Dystopia

"Do you think we live in a utopia?" she asked, idling on the Albanian hillside under a foggy sunrise in early spring.  "Is this how our ancestors dreamed of living?"

A clear brook bubbled along the bottom of gentle, grass-clothed hills.  The first few migrant spring birds, back from winter's distant exile, sang melodic calls to one another in the gaining daylight.  Brian took it all in and answered, "They wouldn't complain.  I'm sure of that."

"Yeah, but--Hang on," she intoned; seasons flipped, new gear dropped into place, and the hills filled with snow, a clear powder.  She kicked off on a slender ski path and he followed close behind, watching the edges of his skis.  Conversation paused in the slashing breaths of snow and speed.  Eventually they landed in a wide plain; she twisted the world back to fall and they resumed their long wander, hand in hand under colored leaves drifting through the clear-blue wind alone.

"I see why you're asking," he observed.  "On the one hand, this--but on the other..."

"It all depends on whether one outweighs the other."  She caught a bright orange leaf from its twisting journey.  "And I guess that might depend on the person, or situation," she said.

"We're happy," he said quietly.

For now, they both agreed.

Dinner with two other couples--close friends, frequent companions--took place at a quaint old farmhouse in the valley.  Nearby, an old grain mill churned the stream with its old, heavy, wooden water wheel, filling the atmosphere with its creaking rhythm.  They talked of culture, and wine, dining long into the night.  It was beautiful; it was perfect; it was free.

It was free.

They did this every night.

It was hell.

Orbits

Sometimes I like to stand apart
from you, some ways, perhaps
across the room, or more;

then, with a sauntering approach,
you can be judged more fairly:
better measured against the Earth.

Up close, it can be hard to see
the myriad ways you catch me
off guard: we are distracted,

consumed by common life &
daily things, too familiar
to appreciate our strangeness.

We are, after all, oddities
in our local galaxies: the only ones
each of us orbit, undisrupted--

so I disrupt it. And then, coming
around the Sun, as it were, I see
your fingers up against your mouth

in an uncontrolled laugh, spilling
hair across your face and shoulders;
overcome with some humor

without pretense or poise--unaffected
joy. This is what I came here for.
So I return, back to orbit now,

settling again into our shared path,
richer for having stepped aside,
and happier to return.




April 2019

Animal

Picking my way across a darkened hollow, tenderly following a narrow path, I see him: far up and to my left, shadow upon shadow, a tense profile outlined against the stars.  More animal than man, he pants with fury, spent by rage; then pauses.  I follow his blackened gaze.  From the opposing crest of a moonstruck hill, she is watching him--has been following his every move--hears him howl with shame, and wounded pride.  Their eyes meet in crystallized violence; his gaze shatters first, and with a snarl he disappears behind the hill.

I have been holding my breath.  I draw a shaky slip of air and look back; she remains, bright and pained astride the far ridge.  Faintly I hear him crashing away through the branches and the bracken, a fading cacophony.

Time dilates beneath wheeling stars: years slip past like days within my hollow.  I see him return; I hear the mumbled apologies; I watch the man-beast stumble among the trees.  Some nights there is peace beneath our galaxy.  Some nights he screams, raising his beast's fist against heaven.  I cling to my short path; the hollow's stream swells and dries, swells and dries, in seasonal repetition.  His voice rings out across the valley--sometimes in fury, sometimes in desperate sorrow.  He screeches of mercy; disclaims her; weeping, begs her forgiveness.

Yet she is a statue, the only frame unmoved by centuries.  The hills themselves shift shapes and settle into place, time-smoothed in their edges and their slopes; in answer, my hollow deepens, pulled by the movement of its streams.  Now deep within this newborn valley, I crane my neck to see her remain, a granite fortitude.

Who can believe her now?  The stars slow; he is old.  His bright fury has dulled to bitterness, resentment, exhausted rage.  His yellow nails still scratch the dirt and his eyes shift nervously, senses alert to forest dangers.  Animal.  Within me, a parade of mounting doubts crash through my silent observation.  She will not really save him.  She is not even real.  She is a stone, an imagined thing.  He will perish--thus.  Crippled mortal, with yellowed lungs, his untamed hair thin and weak, his wild gaze dim and unintelligent.  Animal.  His bones will disintegrate before her--an unflinching stone.

Then steadily within the valley walls I hear her different voice ascend.  She asks me how I learned to measure all his damning sins; how it is I separate the animals from man.  Despite his pride and wild rage, he grieves his sins, she says--but why?  And then demands of me--"Whose voice am I?"

Now from her moonlit perch she moves, shaking off a thousand years to claim such vivid heights I cannot help but see her.  I cannot look away.  He sees her too; she fills our view; somehow not with size but sheer necessity.

"I am the ancient, eternal flame," she simply states: "unchanged, and every morning new.  I am dark clouds of terror, beautiful and fierce; deadly holiness; all time's power narrowed to a moment's pierce.  Yet I would breathe to you of grace and love--redemption in my patience and my pain.  So then, I ask again--Whose voice am I?  And who are you to hear?"

All this in silence; heard deep within.  Rustling, I find I am the animal-man; we are the same; so pierced are we with her holy claim.  Without answer, without a name, I hang our heads in shameful frames.

Then a gentle touch, her hand upon the skin of my rough-hewn face.  She breathes of grace; of love--a glimpse.  I know that I shall find myself the animal again.  But now, hope-pierced, I watch his course upon the hill and wait with silent joy.




March 2019

Animals

Again you find me here,
more animal than man,
trapped in my silver cage
of illusions and sins.
I'm proud and ashamed, but
not willing to concede:
Grace may be sufficient,
but I'm not on my knees.
I recoil from the heat
of my own snarling heart--
but how can I hide this?
You forged me in the dark.
Mumbling apologies,
I slip through years like days,
wondering if my sin
condemns more than you save.
Silently, I confess
I also question if
you care, or if at death
I'll find an empty chair.

Then steadily within myself,
I hear a different voice ascend.
It asks me how I know my sins--
are sins?, and how I find I am
not as the animals, but Man?
I grieve my faults, it knows, but why?
And then demands--"Whose Voice Am I?!"
Then from my empty chair You rise
into view: old eternal flame
unchanged, but every morning new.
Dark cloud of terror, beautiful
and fierce; a deadly holiness,
all power in a moment pierced.
And yet, you breathe of grace and love;
redemption in your blood and pain!
So then: "Whose voice am I? And why
do you hear me so close within?"

A glimpse--then find myself
an animal again.

March 2019

This started out as the first stanza, then sat in my notes folder for a few months.  I came back to it this weekend and started up a tortured development process, resulting in this tepid and awkward execution.  I'm posting it so I can stop working on it for a bit.  I want it to be a lot better than it is, but it's not--and, like me, it's resistant to change.

does it help?

"does it help them?", she asks:
to silently acquiesce
without response?

i don't know,
so i don't reply;
ironic repetition of my sin.

this is how it's always been!
whether arrogant or kind,
i just throw myself in,
quietly over the edge beside
some screaming fool i love:
assuming i will learn to fly,
or figure something out--
imagining a scene where i
hug my falling friend, pulling up
with my flapping cape behind me
in a race against the ground.

looking around, seeing with a shrug
that i could obviously do less,
i never think to accuse myself of
not doing enough, i guess.

perhaps it's cowardice.
maybe i only listen because
i lack the courage to interfere.
maybe all my kind intentions
end in cruelties & subtle harm.
hoping not, i still don't know.

years ago, standing at the kitchen sink
fuming with a wounded pride
i suddenly understood, as in a vision:
i'd rather love, and be taken for a fool
than lose the ones i'd otherwise rule.
seeing clearly, then, i choose
strong gullibility: intentional defeat
for the sake of love & peace.

maybe i am warped and sad,
duped in ways i do not understand
while defending my oppressors
to myself. maybe that matters.

"i don't know," i say again,
this time spoken, but still
a declination to reply--
ironic repetition of my sin.
but silently, i assume (as ever)
i'll figure something out.

march 2019