Armor by Tom Digby
All my life the world has been getting smaller:
Far-off lands that were once the stuff of legend
Are now a mouse click away.
In a way that’s wonderful.
But in a way it isn’t.
For all that we have shrunk the world’s distances
We have not shrunk the world’s pain.
A whole wide world of suffering and despair
Comes into our living rooms every day,
Film at eleven.
How can any sane person stand it?
One word: Armor.
I go clanking through my day like some denizen of the Round Table,
My visor showing me the narrowest slices of the darkness without
As I strive to keep some flame of humanity burning within.
But I am still afraid:
Someday, when I gather with my friends in some safe space
And we decide to open ourselves to one another,
We may find that our armor has long been empty.
Sometimes A Man Stands Up During Supper
Rainer Maria Rilke
translated by Robert Bly
Sometimes a man stands up during supper
and walks outdoors, and keeps on walking,
because of a church that stands somewhere in the East.
And his children say blessings on him as if he were dead.
And another man, who remains inside his own house,
dies there, inside the dishes and in the glasses,
so that his children have to go far out into the world
toward that same church, which he forgot.
The laughter of women wipes the mist
from the spectacles of the old;
it infects them with a happy flu
and they laugh as if they were young again
Prisoners held in underground cells
imagine that they see daylight
when they remember the laughter of women
It runs across water that divides,
and reconciles two unfriendly shores
like flares that signal the news to each other
What a language it is, the laughter of women,
high-flying and subversive.
Long before law and scripture
we heard the laughter, we understood freedom.
Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
I’m haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples:
I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.