WhistlerCrow's Book Journey

“I did not know the detours of grief. I did not know the detours from grief.” — Blues Procession by Terrance Hayes

Grief is the chimeric jagged-toothed eldritch horror that we’ve all heard whispers of, but when we finally meet it we can never describe it perfectly, because once you’ve met it, you’re Changed, and Change is inconceivable for those who are yet to be Touched by Grief’s cold clawed hands.

“Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist-slack they may be—these last strands of man In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.” — [Carrion Comfort] by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Grief is the buzzard-headed familiar who circles patiently as we stumble through life after meeting it. Closer than a friend. Nearer than a brother. A deeper, too-brittle effigy of who and what we’ve lost.

“Were the stars so clear another heaven appeared behind them? Did you hear the wind consoling the leaves? Did you look inside the cap of a mushroom, and part the curtain of disbelief?” — Unsolicited Survey by Phillis Levin

Grief is the old eccentric woman who whispers dreams into our heads as we float between sleep and wakefulness. Maybe they’re fever dreams…too golden to bear, but maybe, just maybe, they might have some truth to them too. And that’s what we hold onto in the cold lonely midnights.

“And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings, That appeared once, still wet As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn, And, touched, coddled, began to live In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up, Tribes on the march, planets in motion. "We are," they said, even as their pages Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame Licked away their letters. So much more durable Than we are, whose frail warmth Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes. I imagine the earth when I am no more: Nothing happens, no loss, it's still a strange pageant, Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley. Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.” — And Yet the Books by Czeslaw Milosz

Grief is a library of unread books. Grief is a pile of unplayed games. Grief is the mountain trail that is unclimbed. Grief is the almost, and the glimmer of what yet might be for someone again.

“When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.” — When Death Comes by Mary Oliver

Grief is the lie that this earth is too-far gone to enjoy. The premature mourning of nature and beautiful places. They still exist. They still are out there. They are not gone yet. May we become engorged on all the honeysuckled joys of this beautiful planet. The billionaires are selfish bastards, but we are wild creatures and we will fight teeth-bared and rabid before they take any more from us.

“All things come to an end; small calves in Arkansas, the bend of the muddy river. Do all things come to an end? No, they go on forever. They go on forever, the swamp, the vine-choked cypress, the oaks rattling last year's leaves, the thump of the rails, the kite, the still white stilted heron. All things come to an end. The red clay bank, the spread hawk, the bodies riding this train, the stalled truck, pale sunlight, the talk; the talk goes on forever, the wide dry field of geese, a man stopped near his porch to watch. Release, release; between cold death and a fever, send what you will, I will listen. All things come to an end. No, they go on forever.” —Train Ride by Ruth Stone