June 29: Donald Hall, "The Angels," Eternity

The Angels

by:  Donald Hall

In the cold mist of a November
morning, pickups park deep
in fallen leaves while hunters
file singly into the woods,
looking for deer that browse
in abandoned apple orchards
by cellarholes.
                         God watches
them move under oak and hemlock
like fleas in a dog's pelt,
so many of them, tiny among
the trees.  The master declares:
"It makes no difference, a thousand
angels or one; there
is no number in eternity."

____________________

It has become truly summer in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  It has been 90 sweltering degrees all day, punctuated by an occasional massive thunderstorm.  Even now, at nine o'clock in the evening, it has only cooled down a few degrees.

I am not going to belabor this post.  I'm too hot.  The Donald Hall poem above reminds me of cooler times, when things aren't so green and . . .  hot.  That's why I chose it.  Plus, he captures the concept of eternity so well.  It contains every number and no number.  A thousand angels and one angel.  All time and no time.

For Saint Marty, this day has seemed eternally warm.

July 5: Surrounded by Angels, Tracy K. Smith, "The Angels"

You know, I'm a lucky guy.  I'm surrounded by angels.

Okay, this is not going to be one of those posts that cause the nearest diabetic to go into a coma.  It's a simple observation.  My life is filled with wonderful people.  I like my coworkers at the medical center.  My office mate at the university is one of my best friends.  My daughter and son bring me joy on a daily basis.  My daughter's boyfriend is a wonderful kid who treats her really well.  I have best friends who I know would do anything for me, and vice versa.  An my wife doesn't mind that I'm a poet. 

Saint Marty doesn't deserve all the goodness these people bring to his life.

The Angels

by:  Tracy K. Smith

Two slung themselves across chairs
Once in a motel room. Grizzled,
In leather biker gear. Emissaries
For something I needed to see.

I was worn down by an awful panic.
A wrenching in the gut, contortions.
They sat there at the table while I slept.
I could sense them, with a deck

Of playing cards between them.
To think of how they smelled, what
Comes to mind is rum and gasoline.
And when they spoke, though I couldn’t,

I dared not look, I glimpsed how one’s teeth
Were ground down almost to nubs.
Which makes me hope some might be
Straight up thugs, young, slim, raw,

Who bounce and roll with fearsome grace,
Whose very voices cause faint souls to quake.
— Quake, then, fools, and fall away!
— What God do you imagine we obey?

Think of the toil we must cost them,
One scaled perfectly to eternity.
And still, they come, telling us
Through the ages not to fear.

Just those two that once and never
Again for me since, though
There are — are they? — 
Sightings, flashes, hints:

A proud tree in vivid sun, branches
Swaying in strong wind. Rain
Hurling itself at the roof. Boulders,
Mounds of earth mistaken for dead

Does, lions in crouch. A rust-stained pipe
Where a house once stood, which I
Take each time I pass it for an owl.
Bright whorl so dangerous and near.

My mother sat whispering with it
At the end of her life
While all the rooms of our house
Filled up with night.