Macular Degeneration
Oft times I wake at six o’clock
to make my way (and you know
why) to the bath room, the hall
carpet strewn with a swarm,
a flock of black moths
still sleeping: stark illusions
shaped by macular degeneration.
Exquisitely poised, they do not
protest when I step on them.
They do not fly away in haste, but
softly remain in place as if they
had every right to reside there,
awaiting my arrival—and they do.
These images are benign. They
wish me no ill, they shall not harm
me. Although at first they did,
they no longer occasion fear
of any sort. Now they are my friends:
black moths my failing eyesight
molds. They greet me like hushed
silent sparrows in the morning.
Overall, my eyesight is failing,
fading, declining—yet offers
this greeting as compensation--
or as Oliver Sachs has said:
“The inferior visual cortex has
thousands and tens of thousands
and millions of images, or figments …
normally part of the integrated stream
of perception. One is not conscious
of them, unless visually impaired.”
The black moths are no longer present
when I emerge from the bathroom:
vanished, like fickle friends.
But tomorrow morning—Who knows?
They may well be there again. Or
maybe just a middling-sized fish?
Sext (The Hours of the Day)
Sext is high noon: a time for fervent joy,
continued commitment—and caution.
It’s the apex of the day, the middle of
one’s life, faced with the temptation to get
careless: to take one’s time for granted.
Large silence: to be or not to be? Decide.
The toll of Angelus bells exults us: a summons
to courage to stay the course, but also the urge
to slough off, give up, take a nap.
The day has reached its peak. An angel
informs us that eternity is here and now--
high noon’s moment of reflection, a prayer
for peace: Stop whatever you are doing
and sing—then partake of the day’s main
shared meal: a celebration of sustenance.
The wedding feast of eternity is at hand,
converted to our time, our clock, honored
by solemn clarity and consciousness;
Our full resolve is at stake—recognition,
awareness of God’s unstinting love.
If we don’t know who we are, we doubt
we are loved—but we are loved, and
the best way to feel it is to believe it,
and give Thanks.
Ask for nothing, and the ultimate high noon
paradox shall be yours: to move forward,
onward, unknowing, but in good faith--
breathing steadily, flowing, vulnerable but
filled with tranquillitas ordines: the stillness
of order, harmony, matched with the furor
of song—surviving all crisis, the “sifting
out,” the moving on, one foot at a time.
“Keep on keepin’ on,” fully in step with song.
William Minor has published eight books of poetry—most recently Gypsy Wisdom: New & Selected Poems, and a chapbook--Another Morning (Finishing Line Press). He has also published two memoirs: The Inherited Heart and Going Solo: A Memoir, 1953-1958. A recent YouTube video (with original music--Bill on piano) features the title poem from the chapbook (“Another Morning by William Minor”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epJ7eFylCoQ).
Oft times I wake at six o’clock
to make my way (and you know
why) to the bath room, the hall
carpet strewn with a swarm,
a flock of black moths
still sleeping: stark illusions
shaped by macular degeneration.
Exquisitely poised, they do not
protest when I step on them.
They do not fly away in haste, but
softly remain in place as if they
had every right to reside there,
awaiting my arrival—and they do.
These images are benign. They
wish me no ill, they shall not harm
me. Although at first they did,
they no longer occasion fear
of any sort. Now they are my friends:
black moths my failing eyesight
molds. They greet me like hushed
silent sparrows in the morning.
Overall, my eyesight is failing,
fading, declining—yet offers
this greeting as compensation--
or as Oliver Sachs has said:
“The inferior visual cortex has
thousands and tens of thousands
and millions of images, or figments …
normally part of the integrated stream
of perception. One is not conscious
of them, unless visually impaired.”
The black moths are no longer present
when I emerge from the bathroom:
vanished, like fickle friends.
But tomorrow morning—Who knows?
They may well be there again. Or
maybe just a middling-sized fish?
Sext (The Hours of the Day)
Sext is high noon: a time for fervent joy,
continued commitment—and caution.
It’s the apex of the day, the middle of
one’s life, faced with the temptation to get
careless: to take one’s time for granted.
Large silence: to be or not to be? Decide.
The toll of Angelus bells exults us: a summons
to courage to stay the course, but also the urge
to slough off, give up, take a nap.
The day has reached its peak. An angel
informs us that eternity is here and now--
high noon’s moment of reflection, a prayer
for peace: Stop whatever you are doing
and sing—then partake of the day’s main
shared meal: a celebration of sustenance.
The wedding feast of eternity is at hand,
converted to our time, our clock, honored
by solemn clarity and consciousness;
Our full resolve is at stake—recognition,
awareness of God’s unstinting love.
If we don’t know who we are, we doubt
we are loved—but we are loved, and
the best way to feel it is to believe it,
and give Thanks.
Ask for nothing, and the ultimate high noon
paradox shall be yours: to move forward,
onward, unknowing, but in good faith--
breathing steadily, flowing, vulnerable but
filled with tranquillitas ordines: the stillness
of order, harmony, matched with the furor
of song—surviving all crisis, the “sifting
out,” the moving on, one foot at a time.
“Keep on keepin’ on,” fully in step with song.
William Minor has published eight books of poetry—most recently Gypsy Wisdom: New & Selected Poems, and a chapbook--Another Morning (Finishing Line Press). He has also published two memoirs: The Inherited Heart and Going Solo: A Memoir, 1953-1958. A recent YouTube video (with original music--Bill on piano) features the title poem from the chapbook (“Another Morning by William Minor”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epJ7eFylCoQ).