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In celebration


You sit in a chair, touched by nothing, feeling
The old self become older self, imagining
Only the patience of water, the boredom of a stone.
You think that silence is the extra page,
You think nothing is good or bad, not even the
Darkness that fills the house while you sit watching
It happen. You’ve seen it happen before. Your friends
Move past the window their face soiled with regret.
You want to wave but cannot raise your hand.
You sit in a chair, you turn to the night shade spreading
A poisonous net around the house. You taste
The honey of absence. It is the same wherever
You are, the same if the voice rots before
The body, or the body rots before the voice.
You know that desire leads only to sorrow, that sorrow
Leads to achievements which leads to emptiness.
You know that this is different, that this
Is a celebration, the only celebration
That by giving yourself over to nothing,
You shall be healed. You know that there is joy in feeling
Your lungs prepare themselves for an ashen future,
so you wait, you stare and wait, and the dust settles
And the miraculous hours of childhood wander in darkness
“In celebration” ~ Mark Strand
www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/mark-strand
The old self become older self, imagining
Only the patience of water, the boredom of a stone.
You think that silence is the extra page,
You think nothing is good or bad, not even the
Darkness that fills the house while you sit watching
It happen. You’ve seen it happen before. Your friends
Move past the window their face soiled with regret.
You want to wave but cannot raise your hand.
You sit in a chair, you turn to the night shade spreading
A poisonous net around the house. You taste
The honey of absence. It is the same wherever
You are, the same if the voice rots before
The body, or the body rots before the voice.
You know that desire leads only to sorrow, that sorrow
Leads to achievements which leads to emptiness.
You know that this is different, that this
Is a celebration, the only celebration
That by giving yourself over to nothing,
You shall be healed. You know that there is joy in feeling
Your lungs prepare themselves for an ashen future,
so you wait, you stare and wait, and the dust settles
And the miraculous hours of childhood wander in darkness
“In celebration” ~ Mark Strand
www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/mark-strand
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