L.R. Harvey Poetry

BRIEF RESPITE It’s where the rose is reddest that                the walker stays his steps, intent to rest his feet beside the stream                if only for a bit. And can we blame  the walker for revealing his human-                ity, his need for periodic succor on the dusty path? Observe his fingers loosening the dusty straps. Observe                the swollen flesh beneath, the welts as latent testimony to his weariness.                 Observe now the snake well-hidden       in the reeds, the naked spot along                 the heel as he drifts away to dream of battles which he fights head-on.

ESCAPING THE CAVE              "The mind that is not baffled is not employed." - Wendell Berry Plato, too, well-understood the implications of a steady  stare, the beatific ignorance  of resting fully in the known.  A shadow will solidify when                    seen alone for long enough. Why, then, am I writing this, discontent and wondering at all I deemed the real? I wonder (and there  I go again) if Someone turned                    me round?

THE QUESTION Yes, it was me who let it out the cage, but I'd projected it as tamer when I did the deed. Now the kids are on the desks and begging me to make it go away, like I were fast enough to catch it with my own bare hands, like I were really capable to find a way to lure it back to the safe terrarium of theoreticals they love to ogle but never touch themselves. I'd only hoped to pump a rush of blood into this cold sarcophagus  they call a class, but now it's past my expertise, and all that I can   do is pray they run away to find                a teacher with the composure                               to call them across the roiled waters.   

Approaching the Abyss Consider how it feels to get up for a glass of water, mid- night, at a stranger’s house.  The mind, so too the eyes,  are blind and groping. Then,  consider if the consequence for negligence were more than just a shattered pinky toe or vase,   but utter devastation of a life  you thought you knew, a life you thought was yours. Then— but no, enough. You understand,  I trust, my fear of entering  the dark of the unknown alone.   But if we’re faithful to the metaphor the fact remains we’re parched,  and willing, then, to risk everything for a glass of something cool to drink.

INFINITE AGAPE Forgive us our misunderstanding,  but please, consider how everything  is bounded here. My neighborhood  is fenced. Our hopes are hemmed by finitude. And yes, I know we act like intellect is infinite, but even that is but a brittle rubber band. Consider, then, that I might struggle to deter- mine how , exactly, You’ve centered me and her and even Jason down the street.   You see the issue here? Of course, if we were to (insufficiently) conceive infinity as truly borderless, then that assumes       a shape with endless radii, which means,           I guess, we all could be the throbbing centerpiece.

REDEFINING THE RUBRIC The pure at heart will see you, Lord.  Is it considered pure that worms on Summer pavement bother me? I cry when Simba’s father sleeps the final sleep, and that’s at 26! Could you then clarify what meets the vague criteria, the way I try  to do when crafting a student's essay rubric? But maybe it’s this insistence for the quantifiable that keeps me from achieving such a sight—      we students stifle love to say it right. 

REQUIEM Finitude demands we pick                an image for the imageless—                               inadequate, of course, but  good enough to help us set                 the angst at ease. For most                               a stepping over will suffice,  as if the two were separated                by glass doors at a bank that                               only spin one way. Sailors see  a ship, a sea. Due to allergies,                 I now anticipate that it will                               be like when your nostril whistles inexplicably after hours out                of order, and suddenly you find                               the world clean and clear again,              a state you'd nearly forgotten.

  THE VEIL Not to be needlessly contrarian, my dear—and yes, I understand  a family picnic’s not the time or place for commentary on  the metaphysical—but when  your dad is scooping beans and noting how clear the sky  is, it’s riveting what qualifies as such. Glass is clear. So  is the general opinion on who  should hold the office come  November. But no, the dome  is clearly quite opaque. Unless, of course, he’s right , and it’s       our vision clouded in a kind of cataract that keeps us from      perceiving what lies behind,             and like these beans, divine.

THEOLOGY OF ANTIQUES A box of broken promises that clearly didn't fit the door to endless life. Keys,  old keys, have always held a certain mystery, (and well- beyond my intellectual self- control to not hypothesize about the lock.) Old Pyrenees,  keep sniffing round the place for hidden gates that must exist! Hope, not tin but just as firm, must surely have a fit.    

NEAR-SIGHTED Desperate to dispel the mist               without confessing that yes , this necessitates a lens, you strain                till cotton balls are leaves again.  Stop squinting, son, before all               the leaves return to cotton balls and your criterion for clarity                has so subliminally atrophied   that you're content with such.                You're blind—now beg a crutch.

MIDDLE CHAPTERS The coiled complications and anom-                allies accumulate like Jenga blocks,                                and higher than my mind has room for. Why insist on such mystique?                Come iron out the wrinkles in the                                cosmic cloth and settle these perplex- ities! Would it be possible to meet                the Author—tea?—discuss exactly                                 how He plans to harmonize the text?  Then again, if someone were to ask                 me what this poem means, I’d ask                                 they read it again. It says itself best.