Poems17 Nov 2008 06:37 pm
HERE AND HUMAN
In the warm room, cushioned by comfort, Idle at fireside, shawled in lamplight, I know the cold winter night, but only As a far intimation, like a memory Of a dead distress whose ghost has grown genial. The disc, glossy black as a conjurer’s hat, Revolves. Music is unwound: woodwind, Strings, a tenor voice singing in a tongue I do not comprehend or have need to - ‘The instrument of egoism mastered by art’ - For what I listen to is unequivocal: A distillation of romantic love, Passion outsoaring speech. I understand And, understanding, I rejoice in my condition: This sweet accident of being here and human. Later, as I lie in the dark, the echoes Recede, the blind cat of sleep purrs close But does not curl. Beyond the window The hill is hunched under his grey cape Like a watchman. I cannot hear his breathing. Silence is a starless sky on the ceiling Till shock slashes, stillness is gashed By a dazzle of noise chilling the air Like lightning. It is an animal screech, Raucous, clawing: surely the language of terror. But I misread it, deceived. It is the sound Of passionate love, a vixen’s mating call. It lingers hurtful, a stink in the ear, But soon it begins to fade. I breathe deep, Feeling the startled fur settle and smooth. Then I sleep.by Vernon Scannell
