DRIVING
You
never say anything in your letters. You say,
I
drove all night long through the snow
in
someone else's car
and
the heater wouldn't work and I nearly froze.
But
I know that.
I
live in this country too.
I
know how beautiful it is at night
with
the white snow banked in the moonlight.
Around
black trees and tangled bushes,
how
lonely and lovely that driving is,
how
deadly. You become the country.
You
are by yourself in that channel of snow
and
pines and pines,
whether
the pines and snow flow backwards smoothly,
whether you drive or you stop or
you walk or you sit.
This
land waits. It watches. How beautifully desolate
our
country is, out of the snug cities,
and
how it fits a human. You say you drove.
It
doesn't matter to me.
All I can see is the silent cold car gliding,
walled
in, your face smooth, your mind empty,
cold
foot on the pedal, cold hands on the wheel.
-John Newlove, from his Apology for Absence: Selected Poems 1962-1992. Erin, Ontario: Porcupine's Quill.
Just wanted to say I recently discovered your blog ( NYTimes online article yesterday ) and searching thru this and older posts I'm loving it .
ReplyDeleteAs a GearHead composer/musician theres much to relate to and the poetry is well worth the read
So blame the NYTimes if'n y'all gets sick of my presence ;-)
damn. I breathed through, in and around the corners of this poem like I was driving it in that night. Good deal
ReplyDeleteBeautiful poem - and fitting since we just drove the Cassiar Highway for several days. Never turned on the radio, never played a single song, though I did sing (under my breath) "busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train..." ad nauseam.
ReplyDelete