I woke this morning at 5:00, the only light a reflected streetlight getting a slice through the curtains, casting a meaningless hook on the far wall. I could give meaning to a hook shape, but when meaning is too easy it's like water, seen through, not really there.
Later, I found Andrew Sullivan linking to a Philip Larkin poem, "Aubade," that describes, in meticulous detail, the whole experience, a familiar experience for me as, I expect, for most thinking+feeling people. This is a poem you can recommend to your plumber, to your 10-year old child, even to your postman. Especially the postman.
It's here.
I've too often shuttered at these thoughts in the nebulous moments between wake and sleep. After reading this poem a few times, I couldn't help but think of this one by Wislawa Syzmborska:
http://www.poetseers.org/nobel_prize_for_literature/wislawa_szymborska/library/on_death__without_exaggeration/
Posted by: Allan | 2010.05.27 at 08:08 AM
Story of my life this year. Thanks for this, Jarrett.
Teresa
Posted by: Teresa | 2010.06.18 at 05:42 AM