{"id":19817,"date":"2017-12-01T13:52:37","date_gmt":"2017-12-01T18:52:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=19817"},"modified":"2017-12-01T13:52:37","modified_gmt":"2017-12-01T18:52:37","slug":"sated-still-hungry","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2017\/12\/sated-still-hungry\/","title":{"rendered":"Sated, Still Hungry"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Image:<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “Insatiable,” by Thomas Hawk; found on Flickr<\/a>, and used here under a Creative Commons license. (Thank you!)]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

My God, It’s Full of Stars<\/strong>
\n(excerpt)<\/em><\/p>\n

3.<\/span><\/p>\n

Perhaps the great error is believing we’re alone,
\nThat the others have come and gone—a momentary blip—
\nWhen all along, space might be choc-full of traffic,
\nBursting at the seams with energy we neither feel
\nNor see, flush against us, living, dying, deciding,
\nSetting solid feet down on planets everywhere,
\nBowing to the great stars that command, pitching stones
\nAt whatever are their moons. They live wondering
\nIf they are the only ones, knowing only the wish to know,
\nAnd the great black distance they—we—flicker in.<\/p>\n

Maybe the dead know, their eyes widening at last,
\nSeeing the high beams of a million galaxies flick on
\nAt twilight. Hearing the engines flare, the horns
\nNot letting up, the frenzy of being. I want to be
\nOne notch below bedlam, like a radio without a dial.
\nWide open, so everything floods in at once.
\nAnd sealed tight, so nothing escapes. Not even time,
\nWhich should curl in on itself and loop around like smoke.
\nSo that I might be sitting now beside my father
\nAs he raises a lit match to the bowl of his pipe
\nFor the first time in the winter of 1959.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Tracy K. Smith [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

If we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling around with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(C. S. Lewis [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

It’s like This<\/strong><\/p>\n

Each morning the man rises from bed because the invisible
\ncord leading from his neck to someplace in the dark,<\/span>
\nthe cord that makes him always dissatisfied,<\/span>
\nhas been wound tighter and tighter until he wakes.<\/span><\/p>\n

He greets his family, looking for himself in their eyes,
\nbut instead he sees shorter or taller men, men with<\/span>
\ndifferent degrees of anger or love, the kind of men<\/span>
\nthat people who hardly know him often mistake<\/span>
\nfor him, leaving a movie or running to catch a bus.<\/span><\/p>\n

He has a job that he goes to. It could be at a bank
\nor a library or turning a piece of flat land<\/span>
\ninto a ditch. All day something that refuses to<\/span>
\nshow itself hovers at the corner of his eye,<\/span>
\nlike a name he is trying to remember, like<\/span>
\nexpecting a touch on the shoulder, as if someone<\/span>
\nwere about to embrace him, a woman in a blue dress<\/span>
\nwhom he has never met, would never meet again.<\/span>
\nAnd it seems the purpose of each day\u2019s labor<\/span>
\nis simply to bring this mystery to focus. He can<\/span>
\nalmost describe it, as if it were a figure at the edge<\/span>
\nof a burning field with smoke swirling around it<\/span>
\nlike white curtains shot full of wind and light.<\/span><\/p>\n

When he returns home, he studies the eyes of his family to see
\nwhat person he should be that evening. He wants to say:<\/span>
\nAll day I have been listening, all day I have felt<\/span>
\nI stood on the brink of something amazing.<\/span>
\nBut he says nothing, and his family walks around him<\/span>
\nas if he were a stick leaning against a wall.<\/span><\/p>\n

Late in the evening the cord around his neck draws him to bed.
\nHe is consoled by the coolness of sheets, pressure<\/span>
\nof blankets. He turns to the wall, and as water<\/span>
\ndrains from a sink so his daily mind slips from him.<\/span>
\nThen sleep rises before him like a woman in a blue dress,<\/span>
\nand darkness puts its arms around him, embracing him.<\/span>
\nBe true to me, it says, each night you belong to me more,<\/span>
\nuntil at last I lift you up and wrap you within me.<\/span><\/p>\n

for Peter Parrish<\/em><\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Stephen Dobyns [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Over and Over Stitch<\/strong><\/p>\n

Late in the season the world digs in, the fat blossoms
\nhold still for just a moment longer.
\nNothing looks satisfied,
\nbut there is no real reason to move on much further:
\nthis isn’t a bad place;
\nwhy not pretend<\/p>\n

we wished for it?
\nThe bushes have learned to live with their haunches.
\nThe hydrangea is resigned
\nto its pale and inconclusive utterances.
\nTowards the end of the season
\nit is not bad<\/p>\n

to have the body. To have experienced joy
\nas the mere lifting of hunger
\nis not to have known it
\nless. The tobacco leaves
\ndon’t mind being removed
\nto the long racks—all uses are astounding<\/p>\n

to the used.
\nThere are moments in our lives which, threaded, give us heaven—
\nnoon, for instance, or all the single victories
\nof gravity, or the kudzu vine,
\nmost delicate of manias,
\nwhich has pressed its luck<\/p>\n

this far this season.
\nIt shines a gloating green.
\nIts edges darken with impatience, a kind of wind.
\nNothing again will ever be this easy, lives
\nbeing snatched up like dropped stitches, the dry stalks of daylilies
\nmarking a stillness we can’t keep.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jorie Graham [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Insatiable,” by Thomas Hawk; found on Flickr, and used here under a Creative Commons license. (Thank you!)] From whiskey river: My God, It’s Full of Stars (excerpt) 3. Perhaps the great error is believing we’re alone, That the others have come and gone—a momentary blip— When all along, space might be choc-full of traffic, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":19831,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Jorie Graham, C.S. Lewis, et al.,: there can always be more -- Sated, Still Hungry","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,250,5,251,3460,4159],"tags":[2177,2960,3781,4016,4551,4646,4647],"class_list":{"0":"post-19817","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-art","10":"category-06_writing","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-science-fiction-06_writing","13":"category-essays","14":"tag-c-s-lewis","15":"tag-stephen-dobyns","16":"tag-jorie-graham","17":"tag-satisfaction","18":"tag-tracy-k-smith","19":"tag-need","20":"tag-isolation","21":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/12\/insatiable_thomashawk_thumb.jpg?fit=500%2C500&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-59D","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19817","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=19817"}],"version-history":[{"count":13,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19817\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":19832,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19817\/revisions\/19832"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/19831"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=19817"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=19817"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=19817"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}