No duties. I don’t have to be profound.
I don’t have to be artistically perfect.
Or sublime. Or edifying.
I just wander. I say: “You were running,
That’s fine. It was the thing to do.”
And now the music of the worlds transforms me.
My planet enters a different house.
Trees and lawns become more distinct.
Philosophies one after another go out.
Everything is lighter yet not less odd.
Sauces, wine vintages, dishes of meat.
We talk a little of district fairs,
Of travels in a covered wagon with a cloud of dust behind,
Of how rivers once were, what the scent of calamus is.
That’s better than examining one’s private dreams.
And meanwhile it has arrived. It’s here, invisible.
Who can guess how it got here, everywhere.
Let others take care of it. Time for me to play hooky.
Buena notte. Ciao. Farewell
New and Collected Poems 1931-2001
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I found this a very intriguing poem. It drew me into it bit by bit. Then I had to read it again a second and third time.
My favorite lines: “And meanwhile it has arrived. It’s here, invisible. Who can guess how it got here, everywhere”. I would love to hear your take on what you think he meant by this. I think he might be referencing the night, itself, but I don’t know. What do you think?