We are ourselves the incomprehensible closest to ourselves. Jean-Luc Marion
Work-in-progress
The mirror she saw
shine on the tide reappeared—
I see it myself.
I’m looking out and
seeing what raised her questions—
we had disagreed
about narcicism.
I see myself in that calm
tonight and wonder
if she also saw
the incomprehensible
thatness that we share.
We must finally take seriously the fact that “I is another.” Jean-Luc Marion
Low sun, rising tide
gurgling in the riprap, out
here by myself where
we sat last night, your
laughter behind your strong hand.
Shy with each other,
present in the flesh,
we thought through our next moves as
the moon was rising.
work-in-progress
”The name is not said by us; it is the Name that calls us.” Jean-Luc Marion
This moonless, starless
night, I sit by the bay, hear
the waves break, and think.
Or so I think. No
thoughts appear. I am stone cold
as the stone I sit
on. The names for God
fade. I’m in the paradox,
the peace of the waves.
Infant cries, insect
cries. The last days of summer.
The light of day dims
on a single swan
out on the bay. You
drive out here from work. Your young
flesh glows as you sit
quietly, eyes closed.
I’ve watched you all summer un-
wind as I unwind.
Work-in-Progress
Now what do you hear?
Waves breaking up waves, and waves
dying into foam.
If you listen hard
you can hear your heart breaking
the waves. Or is it
the self’s renewal
as flesh is broken between
your loves incarnate?
“Flesh assigns me to myself without any possible return…” Jean-Luc Marion, In Excess, 96.
I am rather worse
for wear. A little blind, a
little lame: without
you I’d lose my mind.
Allow an old man one last
chance at the good life.
No need to make things
up. You are the gift of flesh
that makes me me, in
solitude, in hope.
This world’s a fine place now with
you in it with me.
Love your children, love
the others that glad your life.
My small, perfect world.
Leaves sigh overhead.
Stretched out on the public lawn,
couples speak low or
not at all. The last
days of summer gather us
as in years past. With
our backs to the sun
we look out on dark waters.
We hear the gulls call
from eternity.
The world suffers our wild dreams
in its patient gaze.
“…the miracle brings to light the limits of what I build as my world.” Jean-Luc Marion “Believing in Order to See” p. 90
August dusk, low tide
there’s only one swan preening,
its long neck shimmers
the last one? The cove
will swarm with multitudes on
the last day, some say
or Parmenides:
the wide-eyed moon, spotless sun,
light a foreigner
(Bringhurst translator).
So as dusk falls, WHAT IS is
here, Narragansett
Work-in-progress
August dusk, low tide
there’s only one swan preening
its long neck shimmers
The last one? The cove
will swarm with multitudes on
the last day, some say
or Parmenides:
the wide-eyed moon, spotless sun,
light a foreigner,”
(Brinkhurst, translator)
so as dusk falls, WHAT IS is
in Narragansett.
The rock I sit on
still warm from the setting sun
as I watch the swans
bottom feed. Life
is an intersection; Time’s
miscellany flows.
As I grow old, this
place shares fleeting moments that
move me beyond words.