08 November 2020

A Second Poem for a November Sunday

by Galway Kinnell

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything if you have to.
But trust the hours.  Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become interesting.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands.  The desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asked to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a little and listen:
music of hair,
music of pain,
music of looms weaving our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total


Araignee said...

I'm waiting. Yesterday made the waiting a little easier. I am counting on our better angels to keep us safe until January.

Nance said...

This is such an Irish poem. Such a beautiful expression of sadness and pain in beautiful language and an elegaic tone. There are the glimmers of brightness and love and hope, but it's beauty is in its sorrow.

Nance said...

OMG. I just looked back at this and saw that I made a horrific error. ITS beauty is in its sorrow. AAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!