Dust to Dust
Nov 7 2019
What
surprised me
was
that even the empty house
kept
accumulating dust,
a
fine patina
evenly
dispersed,
converting
every surface
to
a soft dull grey.
Windows
sealed, blinds drawn.
Vintage
furniture
under
white cotton throws;
the
way snow
softens a landscape,
rugged contours smoothed
softens a landscape,
rugged contours smoothed
sins concealed.
And
the same stale air,
as
undisturbed as ancient lakes
preserved
under glaciers.
Air,
you'd have thought
that
would by now have been fully distilled.
Abraded
bits of skin
particles
of soil.
Mould,
spores, flecks of paint
toxic
with lead.
The
stuff of ancient stars, long
exploded
so
that interstellar dust
is steadily raining down,
rare
and precious atoms
settling
out on the planet
like manna from heaven above.
like manna from heaven above.
All
matter
boiling-off
and decomposing,
inexorably
eroding
with
the passage of time.
Even
here
in
this abandoned house
with
its perfectly preserved interior
time
is relentless
and
nothing lasts.
Because
there is always dust
falling,
drifting, piling up;
the
third certainty
along
with taxes and death.
So
why bother cleaning up
when
there is no end to it?
Perhaps
because neglect
would
be surrender,
that
incriminating layer of dust
a
memento mori
we
cannot bear to contemplate.
While
a pristine surface
gleaming
with wax and elbow grease
is
an act of defiance,
calling
out to the gods of cleanliness
to
prevent us returning to dust
at
least before our time.
For the longest time
I've found myself looking to The
Writer's Almanac
for inspiration.
Garrison
Keillor's taste in poetry tends toward simple language, as well as
the mundane stuff of daily life. I aspire to the first and admire the
second, attracted as I am to microcosm and close observation.
This
poem appeared today, and was the inspiration for mine. Ted Kooser
does it so much more brilliantly, of course: saying the same thing,
but so much more concisely; and expressing it with great misdirection
and artfulness, as well as such a light hand with metaphor. I err far
too much in the direction of telling, rather than showing. While he
has that brilliant final couplet, transforming the poem with such
sudden sharp finality.
Carrie
by Ted Kooser
by Ted Kooser
"There's
never an end to dust
and dusting," my aunt would say
as her rag, like a thunderhead,
scudded across the yellow oak
of her little house. There she lived
seventy years with a ball
of compulsion closed in her fist,
and an elbow that creaked and popped
like a branch in a storm. Now dust
is her hands and dust her heart.
There's never an end to it.
and dusting," my aunt would say
as her rag, like a thunderhead,
scudded across the yellow oak
of her little house. There she lived
seventy years with a ball
of compulsion closed in her fist,
and an elbow that creaked and popped
like a branch in a storm. Now dust
is her hands and dust her heart.
There's never an end to it.
"Carrie"
from Flying at Night: Poems 1965-1985 by Ted Kooser, © 1985. Aired
by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press.
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