On Jan 25, 2018 17:13 +0900, epostboxx@xxxxxxxx, wrote:
I found this poem dedicated to the memeory of Ursula K. Le Guin on the NYT
internet site this morning:
By Naomi Novik (Published in the New York Times - Jan. 24, 2018)
I want to tell you something true
Because that’s what she did.
I want to take you down a road she built, only I don’t want to follow it to
I want to step off the edge and go into the underbrush
Clearing another way, because that’s also what she taught
Not how to repave her road but how to lay another
Even if it meant the grass came through the cracks of the pavement, and the
thicket ate it up.
I want to show you something that I dug up out of the earth inside
Because she spent her life picking away at the tunnel veins
And in the next one over, through the walls I heard her working,
The rhythmic steady tick-tick-tick of her knocking at the stone, a music of
the sharp end
Of a pen digging into paper
And tried to learn a rhythm of my own, how to get the weight swinging.
I want to take your hand and put it on the breathing monster’s side
In the dark room, where we can’t see what we’re touching
We only feel it’s in here with us, too vast to touch all at once.
Here, it’s rough and scaly, and here, it’s smooth and hard as bone
And it’s turning even as we try to make it out.
But she did her best to tell us of every part that she could reach
Calling back sometimes from the far side, muffled by its bulk
And sometimes she put our hands on a tooth’s serrated edge
But never without kindness
The teeth were there anyway, and she wanted us to know where we kept cutting
She never told the lie that the teeth were the only part that mattered.
But I’ll do all that tomorrow.
Today I’ll pack some tools, a wide-bladed knife and rake
Nothing with a motor, it’s work I want to do by hand
And I’ll wave to you, going the same way
Maybe we’ll see someone wandering, and call them over to come walk with us
As far as the road goes.
Together we’ll rake up the leaves and cut the grass
And pull back thornbush branches, even if we’ve forgotten our gloves
And in the morning we’ll say goodbye and go our ways again
Maybe you and I will walk together toward that high hill we caught a glimpse
of, a few turns back
We thought maybe the road would go there, but it never did
So let’s go and try to find it
And if we can’t quite get there, at least leave another marker on the way.
Chris Bruce, in
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