Darkness

Darkness. Silence. Waiting.

/ Korin Thomas / 2 Comments 

When you see darkness and hear silence
you know that Advent has come.
Look around.  Sit still. Speak not.
Wait for what is coming.
Wind in the trees. Dog bark.
Traffic hum.  A human cry, far away.

This is Advent.  This is the season.
It is dark out there, perilous chill.
We light our candles, consult holy books 
to little avail. They do not know our paths, 
what ways we were set upon when we were born.

There are choices we still can make,
must make for the good of us all.
Only this, to walk on the dark paths,
to listen but not hear a call.
Our words are meaningless now,
our thoughts like clouds passing away.
Let us wait to see what, or who, will come.
____________________________________________________
Portland, Oregon - Eve of the Feast of St. Nicholas. December 5, 2021

Of all the liturgical seasons set by the Christian faith traditions, Advent is the most meaningful to me.  The watchwords of the season are three:  Darkness, silence, and waiting.  But, beware!  Advent is a pseudo-preparation for Christmas.  We cannot wait for an event that happened long ago.  We can only wait for what is still to come and woe to anyone who thinks they know what that might be!  Therefore, no matter what one thinks of the Christian traditions, one cannot doubt that darkness, silence, and waiting are conditions of human life that must be taken seriously.

Embracing Darkness

/ Korin Thomas / Leave a comment 
I wake in the morning to darkness
beyond the clock and shade.
Weary from sleep, knowing the time,
I throw back warm covers,
step onto the cold floor to make my way
into the lingering gloom of the gray day
that remains just the shadow of night.

In this season we will dress up darkness
in bright lights, adorn it in green wreaths
accompanied by songs and bright laughter
until we forget from where we came
where we are going and who we are.

There are those who do not ever forget.
Angels seek our hidden and unspoken souls, 
desirous to gather up all we left behind -
a friend, a failure, a love we did not well love - 
when, afraid, we tried to banish darkness.

I have had my dark days, remembered,
that I cannot take back and make light.
Perhaps I may, as this season's offering,
lay them all upon the table of night
and for them, offer thanks and praise.
___________________________________________
Portland, Oregon - November 8, 2021

Darkening Days

/ Korin Thomas / Leave a comment

Perhaps it is the settling in of winter
I mean when I write of darkening days.
Yes.  That is what I mean.
Or, the darkness descending
on one growing old.
I mean that too –
I am one within the other.

I wake in the night
open my eyes to see
darkness. I wait for fear
as when I was a child.
Fear does not come, only
silence as at the end
of a difficult journey
when I lay down my coat
take off my hat and shoes
and sit to gather my breath.

I search for understanding of darkness
unfolding in many forms and disguises.
Each day might reveal some new thing
about what is coming, what lies
in and beyond the seamless
sacred realm of darkness.

Portland, Oregon – December 11, 2019

 

Star

/ Korin Thomas / Leave a comment

In an early morning I saw a star hung from a tree.
She seemed to be held there, dropped
out of a galaxy fleeing fast away
suspended as if from a gossamer line
from the tip of a nodding needled branch.

I sat in stillness watching darkness
pass before me or, closing my eyes,
wandering in my thoughts.
What is, what was, what will be?
A clinging sense of loss
the quickening passage of time
slow motions of aging and remembrance.
Oft I came back to that star
to watch her slow descent –
a soft fall onto a branch below.

A clear and cold December morning
without cloud or fog, rain or snow
revealed the star on her way.
She was finding her way through the heavens
in a long arc – ascent and descent –
carrying fire along the way.

Portland, Oregon – December 23, 2017

The Cricket

/ Korin Thomas / Leave a comment

In silence I wait, in stillness watch
to discern the movement of darkness
sifting through the window,
sliding across the floor.
I listen for rain on the roof,
the susurrus sound of wind in the trees
through their glistening autumn leaves.
I await familiar sounds of night –
the whistle of a train and its rumble on the tracks,
a siren moaning in its coming and its going,
the dull delirium of clanging steeple bells
to tell me of saints and seasons,
to chime again and again that all will be well.

This night, the whistles and sirens fade
to the chirp of a cricket, just one,
sounding out alone in the darkness –
All will be well.  All will be well.

Portland, Oregon – October 19, 2017

Darkness within Darkness

/ Korin Thomas / 1 Comment

What could this mean – darkness
as in the deepest night
without brilliance of bright moons
or morning stars in quiet flame?
Darkness as in a mid-day breeze
when all the flowers bloom
sway from side to side
without meaning, just shadows
of light wavering over stillness?

In the rain on a spring evening
darkness walks the garden
settles in among the small leaves
unfolding resplendent life
in flickering forms of fading light
their points punctuating darkness.

I see the heavens, flowers and the leaves –
darkness hiding in them, between
their folds, their flung lights
in all the mindless gaps
between the stars, before the sun
shimmering in every thing.

Portland, Oregon – May 1, 2017

My title and inspiration comes from the last verse of Stephen Mitchell’s translation of chapter one of the Tao Te Ching, of Lao-tzu:  “Darkness within darkness.  The gateway to all understanding.”

“Images Like Picasso”

/ Korin Thomas / 2 Comments

Darrell's Painting Edited

What face do I see when
this painting I look on
hesitantly, bewildered –
an animal wild or
an artist cast out?

Darrell draws on the streets
scraps and leavings.
Thus, his mournful face hangs
reproachful, purchased a pittance
cash and a little talk
on an early morning Seattle street corner.

In parlays with darkness
he loses again and again
his daily life’s work –
faces in wide-eyed astonishment –
given cheap to survive.
They mean what I cannot know or say.

What, in this horned face blood shot
scapegoat, cast out, cries “Hey?”
In forlorn darkness, destined
for ignominious attempts
at survival in hostile places –
urban street corner
six-o’clock in the morning
I, in a rush, he
cries out, “Hey, hey!”

Thus came to me on a morning
a scapegoat in ceramic and oil
Darrell or an image his?
Since, my inquisitor hangs
silent, strange and afraid,
his gaze fierce, wild
encountered on the corner
crying out, seeing me
knowing my face.

“Hey, I think you’ll like this…”
as if I could understand
wild unremitting abandonment,
the work of his hands
what he faces daily,
his own life cast out
offered in a frenzy of loss,
anger and haunting delusions;
mad tales of aliens
specters of sinister doings.
I only have tame considered words;
spared I the wild visions,
the lonely street corners.

Portland, Oregon – June 15, 2016

“Images Like Picasso” was Darrell’s name for this painting. I received it from him on May 1, 2008. He did not tell me his interpretation of this work. The poem is my own interpretation.

I have not seen Darrell for several years now. The last time he was selling his works outside of the Seattle Public Market. He recognized me even through the crowd and gave me his, “Hey, Hey!” He asked if I would buy him lunch and I did. It was the least I could do and certainly not as much as I might have done.

Most of Darrell’s works were done on scraps of wood or chips of concrete he found. He also used broken ceramic cups and, in the case of “Images Like Picasso,” he used an abandoned piece of ceramic tile.