However you find solace, that is what I wish you. Grass on bare feet, light through the leaves, dogs baying at train whistles, kisses, hands at your back.
Sometimes I wish for something to pray to. And there is only language. And all that it fails to express.
Here’s one of Jack Gilbert’s finest poems, “Michiko Dead”
He manages like somebody carrying a box
that is too heavy, first with his arms
underneath. When their strength gives out,
he moves the hands forward, hooking them
on the corners, pulling the weight against
his chest. He moves his thumbs slightly
when the fingers begin to tire, and it makes
different muscles take over. Afterward,
he carries it on his shoulder, until the blood
drains out of the arm that is stretched up
to steady the box and the arm goes numb. But now
the man can hold underneath again, so that
he can go on without ever putting the box down.
All things in my life being what they are, it took me a couple of tries to see the magnificence of this poem. It’s gorgeous.
I agree with you. “The Great Fires” is one of the finest books of poetry ever written.