What’s in a shadow?
Colorless thing.
A shape, a half-known,
a thought on a wing.
Here then gone
like liar’s pledges,
ungraspable solid
with liquid edges.
But on a wall
in brief repose
it documents
our daily prose.
Revelations
morphological
of evolution
technological.
With thanks to photographer S.W. Berg for the study in
computer-generated shadows.
What we see every day
after a bit of life
we no longer see.
Then a puckish light
intrudes
and conjures a shadow
there and not there,
playing,
and we watch
with sudden sight.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
Who knows our curves and swerves,
angles, arcs,
down to our nerves?
The shadow knows.
Who knows our stride, each slip and slide,
but must keep up
tight by our side?
The shadow knows.
Who knows our pounds and rounds,
but vowed to silence
makes no sounds?
The shadow knows.
Who knows to blear, to interfere,
to block the light
its whole career?
The shadow knows.
Once upon a time, dear reader, there was a member of the family known as “the radio.” Look it up. One of its programs was called “The Shadow.” Now even I am not old enough to remember “The Shadow” (though I do remember the radio), but I am indebted to it for its immortal words: “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows.” How awesomely ominous.
(An edit here: after I read Judy’s comment below, I realized that I am more than old enough to remember “The Shadow.” I just don’t. But in the interests of honest blogging I must clarify.)
As you know, dear reader, I have often thanked S.W. Berg, aka Bill, for his wonderful photography. This is Bill. His camera went off without him, in cahoots with his shadow. A nice conspiracy.
My brother was stretched out in his recliner and I was lolling on his sofa, facing his side. The California sun was going down and its fading light fell over him like running water. As we talked, I became increasingly distracted. He was changing without moving. I tried to keep my part of the conversation going but it wasn’t easy; I was watching something I’d never seen before.
He morphed like some special effect from a movie, and became someone I knew but couldn’t name. Then I realized it was our Grandpa Mauck, whom I hadn’t seen since I was about ten, when he died. The shadows had sculpted everything about my brother that was like our grandpa into our grandpa. Grandpa stayed and talked with me; my brother was gone.
It scared the bejabbers out of me. At the same time I felt there was something wonderful about it. It was ominous and reassuring all at once. I tried to talk myself out of it, but the sense of portent was there. Still it hit hard last week when I got the call: my brother had died. Our last visit was just that.
During this past year, his emails had been uncharacteristically terse. If he thought he was pulling wool over my eyes, he thought wrong. I knew his/our medical history. I knew something was going on. It wasn’t what he said; it was what he didn’t say.
I look back. As the sun went down on the other side of my brother and I could see less and less of him, I saw something more. As he communicated less and less, I heard something more.
And I think about how we grasp what’s there from what isn’t there.
The pillow of an insomniac
cleaved by her back
tells of her vigil
sitting upright
in the black cold syrup
of slow minutes
the hour of the wolf
they call it
because it stalks the weak
because it devours
nothing changes in her grey room
but behind her eyes
the pageant of life
and death
rehearsing every misspoken line
rebreathing every choked breath
rewalking every unknowable path
sitting up
but wandering
trapped
amid the masks and powdered wigs
of
judges
and mimes.
Crumpled
something tall and proud
lies felled
death took it
then blade
now knelled
in crackling whisper
as kin mark
their own sure geld
respectfully distant
from remnants
sentinel’d
in tender long shadows
shrouded
farewelled.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives,
Vernon Hill Gallery.
Once upon an autumn day
when the world was turning gold
shadows mocked in counterplay:
tomorrow you’ll be too old.
The vastness awaits
and they must go
in search of their El Dorados
and we must stand back
and hold our breath
in ever-lengthening shadows.
Oddments 