#joanna klink Tumblr posts

  • Some Feel Rain
    –Joanna Klink

    Some feel rain. Some feel the beetle startle
    in its ghost-part when the bark
    slips. Some feel musk. Asleep against
    each other in the whiskey dark, scarcely there.
    When it falls apart, some feel the moondark air
    drop its motes to the patch-thick slopes of
    snow. Tiny blinkings of ice from the oak,
    a boot-beat that comes and goes, the line of prayer
    you can follow from the dusking wind to the snowy owl
    it carries. Some feel sunlight
    well up in blood-vessels below the skin
    and wish there had been less to lose.
    Knowing how it could have been, pale maples
    drowsing like a second sleep above our temperaments.
    Do I imagine there is any place so safe it can’t be
    snapped? Some feel the rivers shift,
    blue veins through soil, as if the smokestacks were a long
    dream of exhalation. The lynx lets its paws
    skim the ground in snow and showers.
    The wildflowers scatter in warm tints until
    the second they are plucked. You can wait
    to scrape the ankle-burrs, you can wait until Mercury
    the early star underdraws the night and its blackest
    districts. And wonder. Why others feel
    through coal-thick night that deeply colored garnet
    star. Why sparring and pins are all you have.
    Why the earth cannot make its way towards you.

    #Today's Poem#Joanna Klink #Corona of Poetry
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  • Given
    –Joanna Klink

    And I carried to that emptiness
    between us the birds
    that had been calling out

    all night. I carried an old
    bicycle, a warm meal,
    some time to talk.

    I would have brought
    them to you sooner
    but was afraid your own

    hopelessness would keep you
    crouched there. If you spring up,
    let it not be against me

    but like a weed or a
    fountain. I grant you
    the hard spine of your

    childhood. I grant you
    the frowning arc of this morning.
    If I could I would grant you

    a bright throat and even
    brighter eyes, this whole hill
    of olive trees, its

    calmness of purpose.
    Let me not forget
    ever what I owe you.

    I have loved the love
    you felt for those gardens
    and I would grant you

    the always steadying
    presence of seeds.
    I bring to that trouble

    between us a bell that might
    blur into air. I bring the woods
    and a sense of what lives there.

    Like you, I turn to sunlight for
    answers. Like you, I am
    not sure where it has gone.

    #Today's Poem#Joanna Klink #Corona of Poetry
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  • adrasteiax

    the suffering, to see it, to stay

    alive, to hope, to hope

    Joanna Klink, from “On Abiding” in The Nightfields

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  • image

    Joanna Klink, “Some Feel Rain” from Raptus 

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  • Joanna Klink, from “Winter Field”

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  • Bliss, loss—(…)  

    Can this be
    the meaning of all the years
    of my life

    Joanna Klink

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  • adrasteiax

    stay close to what you love but step back from those whose need would warp you. That your days, true or false, be yours

    —  Joanna Klink, from “A Friendship” in The Nightfields           

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  • by Joanna Klink

    When everything finally has been wrecked and further shipwrecked,
    When their most ardent dream has been made hollow and unrecognizable,
    They will feel inside their limbs the missing shade of blue that lingers
    Against hills in the cooler hours before dark, and the moss at the foot of the forest
    When green starts to leave it. What they take into their privacy (half of his embrace,
    Her violence at play) are shadows of acts which have no farewells in them.
    Moons unearth them. And when, in their separate dwellings, their bodies
    Feel the next season come, they no longer have anyone to whom
    To tell it. Clouds of reverie pass outside the window and a strange emptiness
    Peers back in. If they love, it is solely to be adored, it is to scatter and gather
    Themselves like hard seeds in a field made fallow by a fire someone years ago set.
    In the quiet woods, from the highest trees, there is always something
    Weightless falling; and he, who must realize that certain losses are irreparable,
    Tells himself at night, before the darkest mirror, that vision keeps him whole.

    On the verge of warm and simple sleep they tell themselves certain loves
    Are like sheets of dark water, or ice forests, or husks of ships. To stop a thing
    Such as this would be to halve a sound that travels out from a silent person’s
    Thoughts. The imprint they make on each other’s bodies is worth any pain
    They may have caused. Quiet falls around them. And when she reaches
    For him the air greens like underwater light and the well-waters drop.
    They will see again the shadows of insects.
    They will touch the bark and feel each age of the tree fly undisturbed
    Into them. If what is no longer present in them cannot be restored,
    It can at least be offered. Through long bewildered dusks, stalks grow;
    Rains fill and pass out of clouds; animals hover at the edges of fields
    With eyes like black pools. For nothing cannot be transformed;
    Pleasure and failure feed each other daily. Do not think any breeze,
    Any grain of light, shall be withheld. All the stars will sail out for them.

    #half omen half hope #joanna klink#poem #in the quiet woods #from the highest trees #there is always something Weightless falling
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  • Sorting Joanna Klink


    June 16, 2000—we heard the echo of a meadowlark.

    Let go the meadowlark and the valley in which its song
              repeated itself and the valley in which its song unfolded.

    Let go the dream of such clear sound.

    Let go the walks, dinners, drinks, talks, senses of beginnings, let go
               the beginnings, we will never begin again.

    Let go the still gray sky. It has propped us up long enough.

    Let go the nights.

    Let go the voice that answered me in earnest in all things I find
               I can no longer imagine it.

    Imagine the rents in the driveway cement from the rain that pooled
               and stayed and the way the cement buckled wildly in the years that followed
               and the years that followed in which no one came to the door.

    You came to the door and said my name and the whole weathered mess
               glowed beneath the afternoon’s hanging clouds and weeds
               grew in blunt stalks from the cracks.

    Who would you change for?

    The maples change more in an hour of wind than we change.

    The aspens shatter light I have felt the leaves in their wind-glittering
                                                                       strangeness. Let go

    the town and its dry river paths the white bellies of the swallows
               under the bridge flashing in the last minutes of dusk and I knew I could not
               continue as I had been nor did I sense a course.

    Who are your friends.

    What do you care for.

    What would you give up if you could give up
               anything. When were you afraid there is no extreme need that is not
                             warped by fear. What does the world

               require of you have you loved the time you have spent here.
                             Was it because of the people with you. Or that the silence

    was never silence it was always the fan’s white noise in the window
               at night and below that the new rain on the grass
               and below that the grass as it bends under the water
               and night buried under the water and the town
               at night under rain and grateful for rain in this dry season.


    There and not there like the wind in the yard.

    There and not there in a smile that is not
            itself but a thought in a far country and a brush
                             of the shoulder that in a single minute means

    everything. Everything you have said in support and questioned.
            In support of love that unfolds where one least
                             imagines it for example a year of endings.

    A white shirt. A shoelace a razor. A pacing in the hallways at night
            like the steady lines of bicycles fanning across flat green fields.

    The shadow of an airplane over the field or that shadow
            as it ripples over a building through the thick windless
            heat. Are you paying attention
            to what passes through you.

                                        Through you
    I came to see a better life but cannot
    account for why I have not always
            lived it.

    A polite vagueness in the Good bye! and Good luck!

    Goodbye to the laughter I love I did not keep it close enough.

    Goodbye to the mind that moves along walls and roads its un-
           ceasing spirit I wish I were always in its path.

    To the boys playing soccer at five in the leafy park goodbye
            their gamesmanship goodbye
                             goodbye to the gravel they scattered the ground
                             they scuffed the houses they return to, may they always have homes.

    Goodbye to the busses and the poppies that flew
                             past us behind bus-windows in deep red-orange-dotted-
            smudges and the edgeless fields where you
                             walked when I wasn’t
                             there, with you, in your head,
                             where you walked, were you
                             alone, were there
                             fields, how alone
                             were you. How

    alone can anyone
    stand to be. Any one of us might be
            tapped any one lead away when that day
                             comes will you be
                             ready. Will you be prepared for what you
                             have not said.

    Will you know what you love.


    To have been alone together is to have been
            alone within an
            illusion. Step into a dream
            of life its tapwater and shoes its
            coffee-cups paper-clips sheets the white light
    that backs every curtain every room casually
    shared every question will you help me with this I will help you.

    Step into a life that is not
            dreamed and try to say now if there are
            remnants of illusion. Is what you say every day real.
    Are the lesser estrangements
            deeper and if so how much can you bear and if not
            what will convince you.

    Does the sparrow on the t.v. antenna convince you—it is there every day.

    Every day the sun hits the red roofs of the village where you lived
            and every evening the swifts dive through the crooked stone streets chasing
            bugs we cannot see. The birds rose
    level with our torsos on the terrace and whistled
            their strong eerie whistle I heard it each morning a lone swift
                             veering past our bedroom window.

    The rains rose and fell through the winter
    and the spring rose and the beating summer
            arrived. The birds arrived
            each night and often we took the stairs
                             to the terrace after dinner to watch their black bodies
    in hundreds rise and spike and dive, each in its own private
            depth, sharp hap-
            hazard wing-splitting
                             rolls. As if there were hundreds of separate skies.


    So that nothing will ever again be for us what it was.

    The long walk to the grocery store in noon-white
            heat. The men standing immobile at boule, murmuring with the toss.

    Constant church bells, the apple you set on the counter to eat,
            the shake of a head saying no. Let go

    the bistro the woman by the creek the disease.
            Notes, letters, poems strung word-to-word.

    Let go the young girl walking toward a building at the end of a long city-
            sidewalk I see she is looking
            toward someone there in the highest window her mother or a tutor
                             watching her child and neither one of them

    needs to wave. Had I been able to read the signs, had you been able
            to speak more clearly, had I
            noticed, not
            assumed, had you come to me
            in understanding linking need to
            need, had I
            heard you, had you
            spoken, I heard, as you
            said the words, the harder
            course, you
            insisted, nor
            have you always
            lived it, persist, and cannot any longer
            pass lightly over
            anything. You came to me
                             in understanding and brought with you the need of a whole life,

    having for months looked elsewhere, the streets of the town after midnight,
            a nullity in each livingroom’s blue t.v., letters
            to others, drought
            in the mind drought in the neighborhood
            grass. Certain
            you would always be there.
            Certain you would follow. The night’s

    hours in talk and the paths our thoughts took
            together. The dust-choked house and its un-utterable shag carpet
            or the blue house and all the passing cars stranded in its
            snowbanks the bitter arguments sweet reprieves the funny
            Midwestern meals you cooked the mountain ash years without cigarettes
            heaps of sweaters dishes the fire
            in the kitchen the purple
            kitchen. The absurd red car your mother gave us,
            the books we wrote, sentences we took out,
            pencil in the margins your shrinking
            penmanship new shoes your smile the one that
            seizes at what’s
            real. The laundry the prosody. The refusals
            the constant generosities every desperate apology.
            You have to hold it in mind all at once.
            You have to need it enough.


    If I let go what will be left. Too hard
            to sort each sorrow from each joy

            and why, instead of answering, we passed into silence.
            Clear, deep green, like a lake we’ve never been to

    and stood at its blue edge-grass and felt nothing, like sunlight,
            as it moved across our faces, slow
                             warmth, amber-

    white, and when it passed we didn’t
                                        know. But we stayed.

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  • #Joanna Klink#Obituary #Excerpts from a Secret Prophecy #love lines#plot
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  • If there is a world, let me be in it.
    Let fires arise and pass. The sky fill with evening air
    then sink across the woodlots and porches,
    the streams thinning to creeks.
    In winter there will be creatures half-locked in ice,
    storms blown through iron grates, a drug of whitest ardor.
    Let the old hopes be made new.
    Let stacks of clouds blacken if they have to
    but never let the people in this town go hungry.
    Never let them fear cold. If there is a world,
    let it not be temporary, like these vague stars.
    Let us die when we must. And spinelessness
    not overtake us, and privation,
    let rain bead across tangled lavender plants.
    If there is a world where we feel very little,
    let it not be our world. Let worth be worth
    and energy action—let blood fly up to the surface skin.
    If you are fierce, if you are cynical, halfhearted, pained—
    I would sit with you awhile, or walk next to you,
    and when we take leave of each other after so many years,
    the oaks will toss their branches in wheels of wind
    above us—as if it had mattered, all of it,
    every second. If there is a world.

    #processional#joanna klink#poetry#poem#quote #earth's the right place for love #bless me anyway #motto for life #just keep going #moving forward#appreciation#life#meaning
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  • Within you the stars are strange (…)A horizon always in your eyes.

    Joanna Klink, Circadian: The Eventides

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  • Who is ever at home in oneself.
    Land without mercy. Interstates
    set flickering by night. When I speak to you
    I can feel a storm falling blackly to the roads,
    the pelting rains the instant they
    hit. Devotion is full of arrows.
    Most weeks I am no more than the color of the walls
    in the room where we sit, or I am blind to clocks,
    restless, off-guard, accomplice to the weathers
    that burn and flee, foamless, across a sky
    that was my past, that is
    what I was. I am always too close.
    I am not sure I will ever be
    wholly alive. Still—we are faithful.
    Small birds hook their flights into the fog.
    The heat crosses in shoals over these roads
    and this evening the cottonwoods may sway
    with that slow darkgold wind
    beyond all urgency. I am listening to you.

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