The good beyond good and evil is this return to zero. G&B 335.
milky ice edges the pond__schooled in the economy of gunshots
a week of child funerals__ducks float in the sunspots
twig and stem twitch in the wind__again the United States at war
with itself O massacred innocents__solsticial sun rips across water
so near to Christmas so far__on the beach rose rose hips gleam
what ontological reserves__and each one a child’s scream
About Tom
Lately managing editor of Single Island Press, Portsmouth, Thomas D’Evelyn (PhD comparative literature, University of California, Berkeley) has had a long career in editing, teaching, and writing. While in graduate school he taught 8th and 9th grade at The Academy, a private school in Berkeley California. After Berkeley, he was books editor of The Christian Science Monitor in the 1980s. In the 90’s, he worked in two positions in publishing: as general humanities acquisitions editor at Harvard University Press, and as managing editor at Boston University. Meanwhile, he ran a book agency, publishing works in sociology, history, and literature. Since the 90s, he’s been deeply involved in adult continuing education, both at Brown University and as a private consultant. He now works out of his home in Portsmouth, NH. He blogs at http://tomdevelyn.info/
Such a painful and bewildering subject to write about, but you’ve done so with the sensitivity we’ve come to expect, Tom (as has Jim over at ExtraSimile, I noticed).
I’m trying to visualise those rose-coloured rose hips on the beach; the way you suggest them, they put me in mind of a different and appalling image.
It is interesting that you have tackled this in the framework of your pond songs. I can see why. You have written in memorium of the young children – clearly so – but at the same time you’ve widened the circle of reflection. And the season of Christmas (not just the solstice) introduces your reminder of Herod’s massacre of the innocents.
Desperately sad and baffling, this incident, but you try to reach for something beyond.
Thank you, John, for your kind words. This poem has me spooked; I haven’t shown it to my wife who was having nightmares about the massacre. I showed it to a poet friend who was appalled. Your words mean a lot to me.