Last Saturday evening, I had the pleasure of listening to Michael Hannon
read from his new-collected book of poems, Trusting Oblivion. This was a rare treat for anyone who longs for
that “Rainy River at dusk / blackbirds singing their hearts out.” Michael Hannon’s poems take you to the essential;
he does so through the hidden sanctuary of the natural world. His poems strip away the veils, the shadows, the
pretenses and prejudices that we tend to cling to for comfort, security or perhaps simply
because we’re used to living in the noise of materialism. So when I listened to Michael read – I
felt as if I had entered a Zen Monastery, a small temple of the heart, reminding me of
that part of the self that could care less about time and appearances.
Brooks Roddan, Michael’s editor and publisher, wrote in his Forward
to Trusting Oblivion “The poems of Michael Hannon operate between the poles of
surrender and struggle in a way that is unlike any other writer of his time or
place…Hannon’s fascination with and assault on the factual phenomena of
involuntary birth—the randomness, wonder, beauty, horror, the pathetic humor of our
situation—is what carries him...His poems constantly and faithfully trust opposites,
contradictions; this must be the poet's way of tolerating and accepting existence..."
—Jacqueline Marcus, Editor of ForPoetry.com
Letter Poem
Yes.
I remember that big trout,
taken near nightfall
on Bixby Creek, the rain
just beginning its poem.
I remember the stream's clear voice
and your daughter's voices,
running together over white stones.
I remember the moon and its woman
the axe and its fear,
the drink and its beautiful lie.
It's after midnight now,
and I want to finish these lines
begun by your disembodied voice.
But as sometimes happens,
the muse seems to say,
This far and no farther.
What is one to do?
The ear listens for a lifetime,
but it's the heart that hears
what can't be said.
Marmo's Landing
Life at its most intense
is still just barely alive
hanging from a thread
that the softest voice might sever,
were that our fate.
So we have come to this,
a kind of middle way, found
by the heart getting lost—
the light on the lake changeable,
but resigned, as if it knew
that the cry of a child in pleasure
exactly resembles its cry in fear.
Night will fall here without totems,
just the sum of our day expressed
in what simplifies and saves.
In the wide world, which is mad,
we find each other and this place
at the bottom of its predictable days;
someone's dream beaten senseless,
then hammered into a modest worth.
As with so much else,
we are strangers to all this,
visitors who will try our luck,
then drift on with the season, the work,
the inevitable necessity of struggle.
The rented boat seems to row itself,
as if we knew what we were doing.
The fish we release weren't put here
for our pleasure, and neither were we.
None the less, we forget ourselves
and are pleased.
Heartland
Glacier stones piled in a field,
the darkening birches—
moments separate from the welter.
My son and I are rowing across the sky
on the Rainy River at dusk,
blackbirds singing their hearts out.
True affection in the natural world—
this is what I've come for,
if I've come for anything at all.
A moose starts out of the wood,
then changes her mind.
Clouds argue about nothing
and give it up. Heaven unscrolls.
lights come on in the firefly.
Blessing & Dispersal
Weather moves the furniture around,
and the furniture blushes with love.
An hour ago we said goodbye between storms
Now it is raining again, cold and dark.
Friends, let's light a good fire today,
burning the heartwood first.
This life won't last forever.
Under The Volcano
The evening Trades insinuate a dream of women,
and the heart's failure to know itself.
The air is sweet as a kiss,
a blown white curtain of plumeria.
Thin clouds ghost across the starry caldera.
Lava breaks in the sea's perfect teeth.
We are happy tonight, and fortunate
to have come this far together,
trusting between us what can't be trusted.
October light
A cold wind fills the eaves—
the new paint glistens.
Dead for weeks, the grasses
rattle and nod at twilight.
Still hidden, the full moon
radiates decrease and clarity.
The Poet at Sixty
I thought I heard the sound of one hand clapping,
but it was only snow, striking the window and falling away.
First Morning of The New Year
Sleepy nurses smile over the infant in a glass box.
They have saved it for its future.
The world looks in, shy and cruel.
In Early Spring
Cold and alone all days watching herons hunt in the rain,
I was surrendered, and mistook this for happiness.
Reasonably Perfect
After weeks of storm, the sea is quiet.
Page after empty page of it, from here to the horizon.
Loud bees circle the woodpile.
Grief
Sitting at the death bed,
I caught a glimpse of your freedom.
It nearly wrecked my captivity.
Spiritual
The lagoon is full of children's corpses.
Tsunami came in the night and murdered them.
Tomorrow is a wedding feast.
New Poems
Happiness
A shivering white day in April—
winter's lost child, hurrying to catch up.
Out on the windy flats,
a solitary heron hunts all afternoon without success—
happiness just around the corner, but not for everyone.
Tick Tock
Spring was false,
Summer exaggerated,
Fall a lovely shadow—
Winter is true.
I sit by the water
and try to collect myself—
laughter of the gods.
Ducks are landing,
ducks are taking off.
A little girl stamps her foot.
Distant guns—
those who no longer exist
send their regards.
Marriage
Sea lions barking on the offshore buoy
make a ghostly chorus in this stand of old pines.
A solitary monarch floats over the blackberry thicket,
the plethora empty and bright, the atoms humming.
Believe it or not, there's a castle on a hill,
and at our feet, quiet waves foam through a natural arch—
you and I, alone together, at the secret heart of the world.
Michael Hannon's new collection of poems, Trusting Oblivion,
was published by
if publishing (2002). His work has been widely published in
journals and anthologies. He is the author of three full-length collections: Poems
& Days (1985), Ordinary Messengers (1991), and Trusting Oblivion
(2002). Kenneth Rexroth said of Hannon's work, "A very good poet indeed, and
certainly one of the few Tantric writers in any language who is both profound and
witty."
To Purchase Trusting Oblivion ($15.00)
if publishing
2605 Via Campesina
Palos Verdes Estates, California 90274
or contact Michael Hannon 805 528-2318
ForPoetry
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