My Nodebook for December

for Ihab Hassan

Closing the door is supposed to open some

inward source—as with, for example, the prayer-

closet: the text says go in and “shut thy door.”

It's a stroke of luck when traditional

wisdom so matches the turning of the season.

I've ofen thought of writing a poem of grotesque

length (an epic, yes) and setting the entire argument

the instant after Gautama's enlightenment, while

it seemed to him he would pass directly

into Nirvana, while the powers of good trembled

thinking man was lost. It was only an

instant, because of course the Buddha

reconsidered.

Bulls for the bull-fight must (this is

absolutely essential) be

innocent. The very brightest are certainly,

by human standards, stupid, but

after a few fights the

dullest among them would learn not to

charge an empty cape but turn and

massacre the fancy-pants who dances there

for a bloody crowd. But, as Hemingway

noted, the bull never survives. I can't, myself, get

excited about “life and death, i.e., violent

death,” and have never been able to

work up much sympathy for

the brute who runs with his

head down or for the show-off, who

has it coming. I'll probably never

develop a taste for battle or

get seven novels written or kill myself.

History is hard for me. I’ve no

sense for it.

The world—and if ever there was a self-evident

proposition, here it is—the world

is a big fish. I've caught it in

my net. And now, long into the winter

nights, wearily, I study my net.

The fish stinks.

A friend talks passionately in favor of

silence. I listen to him. He says, “Silence

dissolves the categories” and “Silence renews

the potential of consciousness.” And it strikes me

that I should say something.

But I've never been able to argue. And whenever there’s

been a choice between speaking and keeping still,

I’ve kept my mouth shut. Well,

usually. And only after

a certain amount of prodding I’ve

produced the necessary conventional sounds,

feeling the thread of words I spew

inordinately fragile, certainly nothing

to depend on. Whereas the craw of

silence is vast and, anyway,

already has us—it’s the scorching sunlight

of a Nilescape or the wind across the Great

Plains, burying us. Friend, waist deep in dust or

sand, maybe we’d contrive a gesture.

I passed the peak of my

energy at the age of—it's

hard to believe—

twelve. Since then,

little by little, I've collected

the furniture of my house.

I teach meanwhile, and I

study, but no one knows

my specialty.

8 XMAS [after Pessoa]

A God is born. Some other Gods die. Truth

has neither come nor gone, only the Error has changed.

We have now another Eternity,

and the world is no better off than it was.

Blind Knowing plows a sterile plain

Lunatic Faith lives a dream of worship.

A new God is nothing but a word.

Seek not. Nor believe. All is occult.

Time is molecular—so much for

Zeno—and each moment brings everything

out of nothing. In the beginning (each

beginning) the universe is only a

point—no dimension—and then

it’s a world, for a moment, and

each moment is apocalypse. Continuous

creation it used to be called, and now

we say expanding universe because (I

forgot to say) each moment is more. Whatever else it may

be, it's always more. No wonder the poet cries

“Oh,Oh,”

or, on a higher level, lyrical verses. But don’t

worry. I’m not violent. We all

live in a residue of

bright pulsations, a gob

of time, an after-image.

How naive can you get?—I

was wondering, when the Great

Year comes around to this point again

and the next me sits signing his

poems Keith Waldrop, will he

remember back across the void

of Decembers to where I drift into these

speculations? And a moment’s

thought answers my stupid question: I

remember nothing.

When I think of the books you could

fill with what I don’t know, oof. The pressing need’s

for a phenomenology of ignorance. Everything has

horizons, and they’re not just

out of sight, they loom. Yes, and they beckon.

An open door is plain and simple, like a

wall. A closed door is an invitation. But if

the knob is turning . . . ?

Well, I’m closing in, or opening up. I’ve been so

bloody finicky the mysteries catch me sometimes

with my lids down. But I’m preparing. I need

many voices for my revenge.

Source: Selected Poems (Omnidawn Publishing, 2016)