Stanley Kunitz died May 14 at the age of 100. His collected poems reached me deeply and I carry his words with me daily. This is not the same planet it was Saturday.
Hornworm: Autumn Lamentation
by Stanley Kunitz
Since that first morning when I crawled
into the world, a naked grubby thing,
and found the world unkind,
my dearest faith has been that this
is but a trial: I shall be changed.
In my imaginings I have already spent
my brooding winter underground,
unfolded silky powdered wings, and climbed
into the air, free as a puff of cloud
to sail over the steaming fields,
alighting anywhere I pleased,
thrusting into deep tubular flowers.
It is not so: there may be nectar
in those cups, but not for me.
All day, all night, I carry on my back
embedded in my flesh, two rows
of little white cocoons,
so neatly stacked
they look like eggs in a crate.
And I am eaten half away.
If I can gather strength enough
I'll try to burrow under a stone
and spin myself a purse
in which to sleep away the cold;
though when the sun kisses the earth
again, I know I won't be there.
Instead, out of my chrysalis
will break, like robbers from a tomb,
a swarm of parasitic flies,
leaving my wasted husk behind.
Sir, you with the red snippers
in your hand, hovering over me,
casting your shadow, I greet you,
whether you come as an angel of death
or of mercy. But tell me,
before you choose to slice me in two:
Who can understand the ways
of the Great Worm in the Sky?
3 comments:
I think his influence on my writing is obvious. I owe him a great debt.
Nota Bene
There are molecules caught
between the gripping tendrils of the moss
and the rock to which they cling.
I know because I hear them. Their bodies,
tightly bound within each interstice,
plaintively bemoan their damaged lives.
Left alone, come winter,
a deer might set them free,
tearing up the moss with its lips and teeth
and licking the rough stone
with its lithesome tongue.
The leaves from their heights are laughing
at me and my concern
for molecules and lowly things,
but they have no memory of autumn.
Thus, their desires
do not surpass their faith,
but soon, they too will know
the pain of losing the distinction
between prayer and desire.
Would it be an act of heavenly mercy
to crush and scrape the moss
with my heavy boot?
I don't understand any of that so it must mean it's good.
It's not the nicest thing to say, but the world is as ever it was, parading from the dust and back to it. Try to concentrate on being glad that we had the privlege of sharing it all with him, and that he shared with us.
Thank you for that. THe book, by the way, is outstanding. Your work keeps getting better and better. It's developing a fine point and weight.
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