Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Newlove: "Driving"



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.

3 comments:

  1. Just wanted to say I recently discovered your blog ( NYTimes online article yesterday ) and searching thru this and older posts I'm loving it .

    As 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 ;-)

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  2. damn. I breathed through, in and around the corners of this poem like I was driving it in that night. Good deal

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  3. Beautiful 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.

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