there is only this —
i grasp for words,
those gnats dancing
on the quiet morning
between the perfume
of uncut grass, clover:
impossible to catch
or wave away
— a stillness, the only
act remaining
i let the gnats do
what gnats will do
leave the catching
to those who are
prone to catching,
whiling my time in
the weald
Note: 自然, or ziran (tzu-jan), is a Chinese word for the Taoism concept that refers to a state of “just-so-ness” or “as-it-is-ness”.
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Lily Meyer from The Atlantic went back and revisited The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger now that she was no longer an angst-ridden teen, but as an adult — both because it is the 75th anniversary since it was published, and because she wanted to see it with “adult” eyes.
And, in doing so, she found our famously cantankerous protagonist in the story to be less cynical than readers have generally allowed. Holden is very much against the fakers and phonies, but people generally overlook just what the character expected as part of a moral compass.
[…] I was struck not by what Holden is against but by what he’s for. Along with all of his rejections, Holden has a very clear set of ideas about what sorts of behaviors and activities and companions are correct. He doesn’t always live up to his own standards, but he never changes them; he certainly doesn’t give himself breaks. His monologue—the whole book is a monologue—is, in fact, a stream of statements about what’s worthwhile, more than what’s worthless.
Holden’s moral rigor is refreshing in a cultural moment marked by an unsettling mix of cynicism and heedlessness. […]
I will admit that I greatly admire Salinger’s stories, though you would likely be hard-pressed to see the impact of his influence on my own writing.
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we pad toe shuffle
we scuff shoe waltz
wet cobbles of night
hush now shush
be quiet or those
cats’ sharp claws
will rend, bite
thieves are we
of scuff shoe waltz
slick in wet cobbles
toe shuffle toe
toe shuffle we
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i was hollow of tree
all chicken wire & song
come that october country
of hoarfrost & dream
rime burnt leaves stained
gold to vermilion & bole
crumble wake perfumed
i waited there alone for
that coming of you
rook & madder
flint & score
crow & calling
bone & fall
i was hollow of tree
all chicken wire & song
waiting mists alone for
that coming of you
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why write poetry at all
when there is the wind
that carries 'hallo hallo'
of the crow, high up in
the cottonwood tree, to me?
i throw both hands away
and reply with the same
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drag thorn,
too weary now
to pray
night drips
cinnabar
to stopdead
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sometimes we are all storm
with clouds iron heavy the sky and
weighty chains to rattle drag
a train flowing heart at behind
dress sensible, station shoes, silk:
a dream found you waiting
but we found you gone ahead
on and to without
with rain under glass —
left a crumbled platform
stormcloud in wanting
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