After the final no, there comes a yes,
And on that yes our future world depends. Wallace Stevens
1
And on that yes our future world depends. Wallace Stevens
1
And God said, Go forth, and stand upon the mountain,
And a great strong wind came up and rent the mountain,
Smashing to shards the mica-glinting rocks,
Strewing them o'er the broad brow of the mountain,
Strewing them o'er the broad brow of the mountain,
But the voice not in the wind; and after the wind, an
earthquake,
But the voice not in the earthquake that razed the mountain;
But the voice not in the earthquake that razed the mountain;
And afterwards, a fire, but the voice not in the fire either;
And after the fire, a wee cry on the mountain.
And after the fire, a wee cry on the mountain.
And it was so: when Elijah heard it, he sat down among the
rocks
To hear John’s autoharp ka-plinking on the mountain.
To hear John’s autoharp ka-plinking on the mountain.
2
I never know what to write of an Advent morning until the voice speaks.
That seems arrogant, right? Who am I to be so spoken to?
Or yet to speak so—to kill the hearer—that’s what we say.
Finley killed last
night!—I’m sure I’ve said that more than once.
The poet shakes the hearer’s world, and the hearer has to rebuild it from fragments.
I killed. We killed. The audience whooped and cheered.
That can happen when you put your pants on a chair and sing!
3
So, it’s happened again.
I sat in my chair,
in love with myself, as always.
I sat in my chair,
in love with myself, as always.
I didn’t hear a voice—
it just became obvious
what to write,
it just became obvious
what to write,
so I wrote
with my pen
on my paper.
with my pen
on my paper.
Then, when I post it, maybe someone like Jim will answer
that it’s nice—
hopeful and loving.
that it’s nice—
hopeful and loving.
Or, Patricia, responding to Roberta’s beautiful “Promethea”
poem:
It’s tender and loving and hopeful.
Reads aloud well.
It’s tender and loving and hopeful.
Reads aloud well.
