George Bradley
The Cliche Made Strange
It
must never be a public thing, although
The flourish of its inscription decorate the obelisk,
Though its cadences be trumpeted from parapets, yet
Its inmost note may not be heard except
By inmost ear, a murmur, an insinuation, an aside -
Though its practice be bought and sold, its outward act
A commodity and abundant, still its secret smack
May not be savored save on tremulous occasion,
On midnights amidst a pattering of rain,
On mornings when the chill air is its own chapel -
Except two people meet in earnest, its heart may not be known,
Paramours, communicants, their caresses feeling for
The tenuous integument by which its instinct is expressed -
Except renewed, it may not be, as it is
An imminence, a becoming, and yet an origin,
The only past to which we can in confidence return -
A mood, an imposition, an eccentricity,
The same old story never told the same way twice,
In mind contiguous to mind the spirit manifests
And cannot cease to do so for those who still desire
Its reassuring shiver, its comfort and disturbance,
An ache too intimate for naming, this nuzzling, this nothing,
The subtle commonplace, the table-talk of gods,
All that is most human and all that is most odd.
Amanda Powell
Seeing Raymond Carver
Turning left onto Willamette, I saw
the famous dead writer driving an oncoming car,
exactly the dark humor of his face, half
lowering but the gray clouded brow half
