In every man sleeps a prophet, and when he wakes there is a little more evil in the world. - Emil Cioran
Friday, January 4, 2019
Dana Gioia - “Flying Over Clouds”
No earthly image—only clouds, affluent clouds, seen from high above, still bright at the approach of evening. Soft valleys hidden in a snowdrift, waterfalls of ice and air, not whiteness but a dream of whiteness, an innocence one may have felt on earth—but only for a moment, waking unexpectedly at dawn one winter morning after a storm to find the shabby blacktopped streets immaculate in sunlight, glossed by deep smooth banks of snow, before the earliest car or footfall. So strange, this world the ancients never saw, and yet their words now come to mind, nimbus, cirrus, cumuli, magic names to summon all the scattered elements of air. O paradise beyond the glass, beyond our touch, cast and recast, shifting in wind. Delicate world of air too thin to breathe, of cold beyond endurance. And nothingness that mirrors our desire—not of death but of your fluent oblivion, of insubstantial dusk and dawn, your whiteness burning in the sun. The plane flies westward gaining time. The dark recedes—pand up ahead the sky is cloudless, clear, and bright.