USA

johnsokol57@earthlink.net

Pantoum of the Nimishillen
-- for my brothers

Trains whistled and moaned
down by the Nimishillen;
forlorn bleats through house-torn nights.
Our parents never knew our dreams.

Down by the Nimishillen,
we fished and one day nearly drowned.
Our parents -- they never knew our dreams --
war-danced for the neighbors.

We fished, and one day nearly drowned,
just to be away from home.
Back there: war-dances, for the neighbors.
It's hard to watch if you can't see.

Just to be away from home
was their only hope.
It's hard to watch if you can't see,
your parents, through all the pleas.

Was their only hope
to live through damage and go beyond?
They were only parents. Despite all our pleas,
they couldn't hang the moon.

By living through damage and going beyond
was how we wished them well.
How could they hang the moon?
Brutal stars punched out their nights.

Oh, how we wished them well.
We held no grudge; we played in the attic.
When the brutal stars punched out the nights
we waited for dawn & the cooing doves of the Nimishillen.

We held no grudge; we played in the attic.
We followed suit and went to war;
we waited for dawn & the cooing doves of the Nimishillen
to mourn the passing night.

We followed suit and went to war.
But that was long ago. Now we're through
mourning the passing night.
Our parents live and die by a Nimishillen.

Oh, how we wish them well.

For the Love of Paint

When I say paint, I often mean color;
the color of something that looks painted;
painted by God, maybe -- in an omnificent way:
like midnight over Oslo, striated with Venetian red;
like the sky over Omaha -- cerulean blue --
back when the Pawnee loved the clean light.

Comparable to the world's white noise, white light
is a nimbus around this spinning cat's-eye of color
and only the vantage of "outer space" slows the spin to blue.
Gravity pins us here, to this place painted,
where we differentiate -- along the slathered way --
the grass green from the bird yellow from the river red.

When I was twelve, I picked up a science book and read
about the inconceivable speed of light.
I read about the stars, and about the way
the giant mixer of time-and-space blends all their color
to a brilliant white. When I was fourteen, I painted
that night sky blue; and the stars blue. All I had was blue.

Speaking of which: the indigo bunting isn't really blue.
Its feathers are as black as the cardinals' are red;
when it perches at the tops of trees, its feathers are painted
iridescent blue by refracted light.
The reason for this alibi of color
isn't known, but buntings seem to like it that way.

When I bought my first oils, I went about it in an odd way:
burnt umber, alizarin crimson and cobalt blue
I selected, each, because of its name, not the color;
another one I chose because Van Gogh used it: Cadmium Red.
He used it in that little room in Arles, where he painted
a dumb chair and a rumpled bed in a benediction of light.

You can fall in love with paint by opening a can of white light,
by dipping a fresh brush in and watching the way
it drools. Soon, you'll see that paint loves whatever gets painted.
You can find some sky, and a lake, in a tube of blue.
You can have an all day fling with tinner's red.
You can be one with the world when you're covered with color.

And when all the color around you seems badly painted,
use whatever you use for paint and find your way to the light.
Paint the sky yellow. Paint the stars red. Paint the sun blue.

Through Din and Fray

Time and the bell have buried the day,
-- T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton

Time and the bell have buried the day
and only sleep will end the wake
as we plod along through din and fray.

While we as ships proceed and sway
and search the shore of an endless lake,
time and the bell will bury the day.

All the shameless will shameless stay;
all take the helm for their own sake;
all plod along through din and fray.

We'll spend our days on the crowded quay,
while our friends die and the earth shakes.
Time and the bell will bury the day.

The past is memory, but like they say:
we don't forget what we forsake.
We plod along through din and fray.

By the time we learn and wend our way;
by the time we earn the life we make,
time and the bell have buried the day.
Yet still we plod through din and fray.

© All Copyright, John Sokol.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.