Millers and shads whirl about
in the agora on the other side
of the window
— out in the night, trying
to come through to the light
above me and recline here
on the windowseat, writing.
Some bounce on and off the glass;
others stagger, wander in curves
more frantic close to the light.
I look out into the dark,
seeing them, but past them,
in phantom seeing myself
regarding me. And that
self exists only in light;
in shadow there is nothing.
As a pastel on black
I exist only as light
dabs and smears of pink
and grey viewed through
a medium of staggering
frantic millers and shads
more real than I.
Later, the light will extinguish;
they will calm and probably
depart. With dawn, I shall
Push anxiously against
my side of the window . . . .
I like the way this one builds out of its prosy descriptive beginnings to the power of the last couple of stanzas — in particular the view of the poet, the self — body, soul, whatever — as a few dabs of pastel and light against the darkness, REFLECTED dabs, the lot of it viewed through a “medium of staggering frantic millers.” It just so beautifully captures the elusiveness of consciousness and identity and self-awareness. I like then the way you take it beyond that into the new reality of the morning. You do that so well, zip the reader to a new perspective, which puts everything that has come before into yet another context. You’ve really developed a vocabulary and a map for your exploration of these mysteries, Doug. With every poem, now, I get the sense of gradually accumulating forces, images, process, observation, which I know is going to leap at some point onto another plane of insight. It’s exciting to read.
Best, Charlie