hours to Waking If You Don't Sleep
Lyn Hejinian (January 1, 2004, 1:03am)
no longer possible to gather up all the empty bottles,
needles, thimbles, money...
understand where the light ray lies, where the steel thread
across the road, though undoubtedly
at the bus stop diagonally across the way, where the kiosk sours
all the rest pertains to the roof of the mouth,
within itself the complex and rather folded-up
cocoon, darkness, and in stammering—lightning and exile.
hexagram is nothing like this. It is also not possible
gather berries, unless I'm wrong,
the tossed-aside neckties from wherever they fell.
to write an ode on the rising of dust.
to whisper in an ear, “O, how I would have wanted!”
yet it's possible—yes, absolutely—the possibility
going out still remains,
smashing the glass with your forehead, without shredding
colored papers, tickets to the world's edge,
empty gauze—its crackling is dry, like the morning's
the Tibetan windmills of hope.
white millstones are gentle, or, rather, restrained,
immeasurably lacking in water.
stirring of the wind bring no joy.
by Lyn Hejinian),
from Endarkenment: Selected Poems (2014)
Random Name Poetry Series
(at our very own Penn Book Center)
(Readings are on Saturdays at 2pm)
July 19: Dianna Dragonetti and Jacob Russell and Hila Ratzabi
August 2: Mark Johnson and Steve McLaughlin