This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

Illumination

Nov 14 2010

We burned the chairs first,

splintered, kindling

kiln-dried wood.

The table, next,

fed, leaf-by-leaf

into the stove.

And beds stripped bare

screws, worked loose;

sagging mattress

stacked against the wall.

We pried-up floorboards, crow-barred 2-by-4’s

exposing joists, gaping holes.

But still ...the cold.

You’d think books would be easy.

But they smolder, blacken, smoke

dousing the stove.

So we burn them page by page,

feeding the flame

hand-over-hand

entranced by fire.

Floor to ceiling, bookcases stripped clean

like wasted cadavers.

They lean weakly against the walls

empty, yet sagging;

dust bunnies in back, gaping shelves.

They too will burn

eventually

- the bone after the meat.

Most of the lines are gone,

except for those

we know by heart.

But the work of words goes on -

a flare of pure white light,

illuminating us

one last time.

I’m very pleased how the last line transforms this poem. Or, at least, abruptly pulls all the threads tight. Not just pleased at the line break between “good”/ “and lucky”, but the reference to “light, left behind.” Because despite the optimism in the idea that matter and energy are ultimately conserved – even fire does not destroy – it is the angst of this man in later middle age that sets the poem’s tone. Until you get to the very last word, that is; where there is the possibility that his life might be redeemed by the light he gave to the world. This metaphorical meaning of “illumination” is very powerful: there is light, and then there is illumination – insight, truth, revelation.

The poem didn’t start with this intent at all. Rather, it was given to me by means of that mysterious stream of consciousness, that exalted state of free association that somehow manages to break down the brain’s rigid compartments. I’ve previously referred to this inspired process as “channelling”: an exhilarating and intensely pleasurable creative state that feels like automatic writing. Let the analytic and critical gate-keepers stand down, and see where that inner voice takes you.

So the poem actually started as a simple descriptive piece: with the first snow and first fire of the season. The key turning point was the word “behemoth” (which was itself given to me by the intrinsic music of language: logs/crossed/top, and behemoth.) I couldn’t help but think what an ignominious end to a life of such longevity and beauty. And what an irreverent act to simply toss a log on the fire, another log to be quickly and casually consumed. That, conflated with my apparent subconscious preoccupation with getting older, made this poem much more personal; and I think, that much more compelling.

I think it would also nicely qualify as one of my notorious “physics” poems. I like the way it plays with time and perspective. I especially like the way it shows natural law unifying such seemingly different phenomena as a growing tree, a fire, human metabolism, the oxidation of metals, and a material interpretation of the after-life.