
When I see the bright clouds, a sky empty of moon and stars,
I wonder what I am, that anyone should note me.
Here there are blueberries, what should I fear?
Here there is bread in thick slices, of whom should I be afraid?
Under the swelling clouds, we spread our blankets.
Here in this meadow, we open our baskets
to unpack blueberries, whole bowls of them,
berries not by the work of our hands, berries not by the work of our fingers.
What taste the bright world has, whole fields
without wires, the blackened moss, the clouds
swelling at the edges of the meadow. And for this,
I did nothing, not even wonder.
You must live for something, they say.
People don't live just to keep on living.
But here is the quince tree, a sky bright and empty.
Here there are blueberries, there is no need to note me.
- Mary Szybist
I don't love the media end of the year reviews, the summations, the lists - the best of, worst of... These were not merely days, months passing, but the end of a period of history. The end of a shocking, fabulous parade of surprise and pageantry that is the conclusion of a year. Mary Szybist's poem, from her complex, rich, 2013 National Book Award collection "Incarnadine," evokes the inconsequential angst that sweeps through us when our world turns once more on its axis without thought or note of the human narrative. We are all of us small parts in the machinery of time.
In another poem, "Entrances and Exits," Szybist writes a line that has echoed in my thoughts for days: Duccio's subject is God's entrance into time: time meaning history, meaning a body. God steps into time through flesh and bone. Do we not wonder at the truth of this? That what is true of blueberries and sky is deeply essential to being human?
Consider the signature artistry of narrative history, of evolving thought. Is this not a footnote to the universe? Are we as individuals of note, or do we merely note ourselves? The vanity of the self, singing its odes of self discovery. Birds, so to speak, on branches of our own making. The one and the wave. Atoms studying themselves. But here is the quince tree, a sky bright and empty.
My thoughts on the last year are quiet: 2013 was a hard and incomprehensible year. Wind-twisted disasters, fires and floods and incomprehensible violence. Families struggling across the globe with loss, tragedy, war. My wishes for the new year are simple: I hope for blue skies. For moments of serenity; the grounding of commitment, good work. Goodness that pulses like breath from our chests, easy and true. I hope 2014 is good to you. Blessings.
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