I support Compassion


On "The Strength of Fields" by James Dickey

James Dickey, when we first met (as in, when I first discovered his work), seemed to have it in for me. A legend of a half-sheep stillborn in a museum preservation jar-- yeah, that was cool. Then, the book, which became a movie, which became an instantly referential banjo tune of the most unmentionable canoe trip ever. Which I've never read, by the way, and probably won't, either.

Not best friends, or similar thinkers, even. He writes in a style that blows the tops off my atria, and makes my cerebrum sick, and I don't like it.

But he writes so well. He is that player on the other team that I hate just because he doesn't play for my team. He is that general I despise when he beats me fair and square. He is that driver who silently reminds me of the fact that I never had the right of way. And then he says this to me,

"Moth-force a small town always has,   

          Given the night.

                                           What field-forms can be,
         Outlying the small civic light-decisions over
               A man walking near home?
                                                         Men are not where he is   
      Exactly now, but they are around him    around him like the strength

Of fields.    The solar system floats on
    Above him in town-moths.
                                             Tell me, train-sound,
    With all your long-lost grief,
                                             what I can give.   
    Dear Lord of all the fields
                                             what am I going to do?
                                        Street-lights, blue-force and frail
As the homes of men, tell me how to do it    how
    To withdraw    how to penetrate and find the source   
      Of the power you always had
                                             light as a moth, and rising
       With the level and moonlit expansion
    Of the fields around, and the sleep of hoping men.

       You?    I?    What difference is there?    We can all be saved

       By a secret blooming. Now as I walk
The night    and you walk with me    we know simplicity   
   Is close to the source that sleeping men
       Search for in their home-deep beds.
       We know that the sun is away    we know that the sun can be conquered   
   By moths, in blue home-town air.
          The stars splinter, pointed and wild. The dead lie under
The pastures.    They look on and help.    Tell me, freight-train,
                            When there is no one else
   To hear. Tell me in a voice the sea
         Would have, if it had not a better one: as it lifts,
          Hundreds of miles away, its fumbling, deep-structured roar
               Like the profound, unstoppable craving
            Of nations for their wish.
                                                      Hunger, time and the moon:

         The moon lying on the brain
                                                    as on the excited sea    as on
          The strength of fields. Lord, let me shake   
         With purpose.    Wild hope can always spring   
         From tended strength.    Everything is in that.
            That and nothing but kindness.    More kindness, dear Lord
Of the renewing green.    That is where it all has to start:
         With the simplest things. More kindness will do nothing less
             Than save every sleeping one
             And night-walking one

         Of us.
                   My life belongs to the world. I will do what I can."
And though my ribs curl with truth, I thrash around in my loud cocoon, and tell him he'll never be right.
What good will that do, my feet say, to walk where there isn't a sidewalk?
I step outside, and I curse under my breath when he shows me how obvious it is.

(p.s.-- That poem is by an American legend named James Dickey. it's called "The Strength of Fields", and it is just a bit of his amazing work. Just so we're clear, Estate of James Dickey, that I didn't write that.)

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