by: Mark Doty
A little heat caught
in gleaming rags,
in shrouds of veil,
torn and sun-shot swaddlings:
over the Methodist roof,
two clouds propose a Zion
of their own, blazing
(colors of tarnish on copper)
against the steely close
of a coastal afternoon, December,
while under the steeple
the Choral Society
prepares to perform
Messiah, pouring, in their best
blacks and whites, onto the raked stage.
Not steep, really,
but from here,
the first pew, they’re a looming
cloudbank of familiar angels:
that neighbor who
fights operatically
with her girlfriend, for one,
and the friendly bearded clerk
from the post office
—tenor trapped
in the body of a baritone? Altos
from the A&P, soprano
from the T-shirt shop:
today they’re all poise,
costume and purpose
conveying the right note
of distance and formality.
Silence in the hall,
anticipatory, as if we’re all
about to open a gift we’re not sure
we’ll like;
how could they
compete with sunset’s burnished
oratorio? Thoughts which vanish,
when the violins begin.
Who’d have thought
they’d be so good? Every valley,
proclaims the solo tenor,
(a sleek blonde
I’ve seen somewhere before
—the liquor store?) shall be exalted,
and in his handsome mouth the word
is lifted and opened
into more syllables
than we could count, central ah
dilated in a baroque melisma,
liquefied; the pour
of voice seems
to make the unplaned landscape
the text predicts the Lord
will heighten and tame.
This music
demonstrates what it claims:
glory shall be revealed. If art’s
acceptable evidence,
mustn’t what lies
behind the world be at least
as beautiful as the human voice?
The tenors lack confidence,
and the soloists,
half of them anyway, don’t
have the strength to found
the mighty kingdoms
these passages propose
—but the chorus, all together,
equals my burning clouds,
and seems itself to burn,
commingled powers
deeded to a larger, centering claim.
These aren’t anyone we know;
choiring dissolves
familiarity in an up-
pouring rush which will not
rest, will not, for a moment,
be still.
____________________________________
Trying to fill myself with some Christmas spirit through poetry. Those of my disciples who know me personally may be surprised to know that I sometimes struggle with keeping the holidays in my heart. I love the music and decorations and movies and all, but there is something about this time of year that also calls me to darkness.
Of course, that isn't unusual for this time of year. The world is tilting toward night right now. Winter solstice is coming. Darkness battles with light in my heart. I've been climbing out of a hole since the beginning of September, and, while I'm much better than I was a couple months ago, I still have daily moments of struggle.
Things that lift me up: my wife and kids, my family, poetry, friends, old movies, and music. Hence, today's poem from Mark Doty. Music always has the ability to transport and transform darkness into light for me.
Sing with Saint Marty, "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine . . ."
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