God is so angry with us That he takes our wits before He takes our life. This candle, Guttering, should last about as long As my supply of music paper, always low, And my pen runs slower than the melodies Spill out. My father reckoned I could teach The alphabet and figures for a living, anything Else I wanted to depend upon my salary. That’s how the world goes. On the other hand I hear the praise of a deaf master, and every Second thought loops in that measure Bridegrooms dip to, into laughter Dapping like a troutline on the working waters. And then I’m out of time, Don’t even know if I am wearing glasses. The songs make what’s inside of things Come out, the table legs wear dancing shoes And millstones grind in matrimony slowly, But exceeding fine. I have to have My little puns. They trouble Neither God nor the convictions of the choir. I need to walk along the avenue And drink in like a mannikin the fables Played before shop windows, listen to the gypsies Hawk their versions of a future gleaming In the ball of chesty hope and murky fate. I must go out, I say, but some pain Pins me to this chair, and keeps me From out there, as though the scene Were but superfluous attachments For a rare machine. But when I go, Perhaps to eat a meal, down A glass of beer, and meet and greet Those friends I still see frequently, And even those who crop up after many years At a funeral or wedding, after shaking Hands and wishing well, I taste The ashes of a former flame, the tremor of old slights. And I’m at my wits’ end. And don’t know what it means.
Laurance Wieder, from PoemSite: Songs in the Landscape
Copyright © 2007 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture magazine.Click here for reprint information on Books & Culture.
