DAVID GRAHAM
ABOUT
Books
Poems
Essays
News & Events
Photography
Homage to Siskind
Imaginary Ancestors
Landscapes & Nature
Black-and-Whites
The Pencil of Nature
Links
Contact
The Mind's Eye
We call the moon the moon
—Donne
We call this night the night,
for sleep is always itself, and dream,
and by the light of habit
our habits are illuminated.
Like light thrown back on itself
until it grows single-minded,
the mind cuts glass, etches steel,
and burns with pure attention.
We call a solo diner a party
of one. The mind's party
is always on, especially when it's late,
it's lonely, and it's crowded with dark.
For fields are different every hour:
light changes more than rain, snow,
the withering harvest. We walk them
expecting to be changed, as we are.
Work, we call whatever it is
we do often or well. We talk,
give thanks, think of reasons
for postponement. We work like hell.
We call despair despair, and a shiver
nothing but. The moon is cold,
we say, frigid ourselves, and searching
a cold beauty. We call the end
the beginning. It is the end.
Poetry
150.6 (September 1987): 321.
ABOUT
Books
Poems
Essays
News & Events
Photography
Homage to Siskind
Imaginary Ancestors
Landscapes & Nature
Black-and-Whites
The Pencil of Nature
Links
Contact