Part of me is held by earth,
part follows the wind
with the gray clouds of winter.
I race with high geese,
follow the crevasse of night
until light breaks
and with folded wings
I return to the cold wet land.
Straining for freedom,
desiring the cave,
I am loosed and unloosed
as ghosts tell their stories
and trees speak in silence.
Like hammered gold
I am forged on earth’s anvil,
shaped by storms
that furrow the sea.
I bring you this peace,
deep into winter root,
and release my bare-branched truth
upon the morning.
Thank you for capturing the spirit of winter. I feel like the “bare branch” on the tree outside my window, and I also feel the richness of spring germinating deep in my heart.
Thank you, Don, and Pat. The image and symbolism of gold being hammered on the anvil of earth brings me back to the golden days of working on the Pavilion together. Here was an experience of love, gold, being hammered on the anvil of earth among a precious offering of men whose love was as tangible and available to be worked as ever I have experienced. I just spent three days with John Albright in the living gold of his life and his home. I just spoke with Pierce Kepple in the beauty of the golden days ahead of us on this precious planet. Thank you, Don, for keeping the flame burning through your words of love forged in the life you live. I hear you. I feel our oneness.
Again, replete with startling images….yum!
Don,
Each poem you bring forward now keeps edging us closer to that vast mystery. Each of us are being hammered in so many ways to awaken to that mystery. Thank you for being at the edge and giving us to see the gold being born within us.
You are hammered gold brother Don! Only time can bring out the true luster – bearing the beast and beauty of each season.
The line “shaped by storms” describes what Gaia has undergone during past cataclysms as part of a family of planets that, in our historical past, have themselves undergone storms that have shaped and reshaped our solar Home among the stars – and humankind along with it. Once shining golden beings incarnate in bodies of light, then fallen into baser metals mixed with gold and silver dust, hammered and burned by cosmic storms of intense energy that has refined human nature sufficient enough to reveal once again the beauty of the golden light of unconditional love. We live in the last phase of that purification when all that doesn’t belong on this Earth is being hammered out. Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.
Magnificent!
Don, each Sunday, two poems arrive: yours via email and the other in the New York Times Sunday magazine. The Times poem is always accompanied by an effusive recommendation made by another poet. Your poems, of course, vary in quality from week to week, all levels high ones. I don’t remember a time when even the least of your works has been inferior to the poem (the weak stuff) celebrated in the Times. In effect, the arrival of your poem is a weekly reminder of the arbitrary ranking of poets’ significance. – Tom
Gold, both the metal & the metaphor, has been part of my life since birth. My father & my uncle were placer miners in Barkerville—my uncle wrote a book called “Gold in the Cariboo” and my grandfather wrote a poem called “Golden Light”. Just a few days ago I noticed a small pile of papers on my bookshelf & noticed an essay titled simply “Gold” and as I leafed through it a thought spoke loudly, “This would interest Don Hynes.” Now today your new poem arrives with sublime synchronicity & I chuckle, and note that this happens frequently in recent months. When you write something it resonates with what is also immediately & tangibly present in my consciousness. Reading the comments here, this is happening for others too. Your poems show colors in the river where many of us labour together over the joys of our placer pursuits, searching & finding the fine gold of genuine living. Thank you Don. db
Lies, secrets, fake news….ad nausea–all bearing false luster and a yellowish, superficial resemblance to Truth (bullion gold), hence the well-known nickname of fool’s gold (iron pyrite). Fools’ finger tips bleed, gripping the rock of authenticity for their “right” to plunder, screaming fears of impermanence.
Powerful and lovely.
Nicely polished like all our Elder Gold throughout our lives. Thanks, Don.
Don as noted, this, as most of what you write, touches so many…touches our heart, our spirit, the golden moment of the setting sun.
Especially today, right now, in this moment, tears are flowing from the imaged beauty of your words. Thank you❤️❤️❤️
Oh Don, you speak my heart’s sentiment for “I am forged on earth’s anvil,” yet, my hearts is gold and is able translate reality. Thank you deeply, for this poetic, inspirational and precious utterance.