Think of the weight of all that paper!
The weighed leverage of it
Like bales aboard a ship leveeing itself
Down a river, over a lake,
Across a sheet of clouds
Like rain suspended in the sky
We might see on a clear blue morning.
And the words we made of light
And contrast, what are those in the end?
It’s not the finger pointing at the moon,
But the moon itself.
Consciousness is a glowing stream
Luminescent as a firefly
In a field of them on the night we came here
And saw everything we could be,
And so became. It is a soul
Awake on a morning of the world
Which is this one, now.
If I could stand on that prow
With you, I would point at the sky
Like Gilgamesh among the cedars
And say that’s my home! That’s where I belong.
Like Dickinson or Frost milling the attics
Of their dreams, their brilliant minds
In that palest light formidable because of the dark
Around it, they could see the brilliance in dim weather
Or the noonday candle phosphorescent
Above their heads and brows
Weighted down with pages and sheets of inner storms
Or muses. I always felt among them
When I read—
A visitor, neighbor welcomed through a door held so wide
As I feel with you now, on your way through,
Carrying one sheet of paper
Bearing your name, as theirs held owned letters,
Like the signed, lace-winged poem you will call your life.
Scott Minar is a poet, essayist, songwriter, and performing musician. He has collaborated with scholars and writers in the U.S., Sweden, Syria, Israel, England, Norway, and elsewhere and his work has been published in English, Arabic, Swedish, and Hebrew. He is the recipient of The Joseph Stein Award, among numerous other prizes for poetry and teaching, and his work was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Joyce Carol Oates. He is Professor Emeritus of English at Ohio University.