The Common Man, and: A Panegyric Against the Consolation of Grief, and: A Prayer to God My God in a Time of Desolation

The Common Man

Well, it's me, this time; I'm sitting herein a farmhouse. Things have happened here,

besides the sun and chimney smoke,but most of the time it's pretty quiet.

In the cemetery down the lanethere's a stone for a long gone woman named

America, wife of so-and-so;another woman's maiden name

was Silvertooth. Both women diedtwo hundred years ago. The lane

ran through the stream back then and I've foundone half of a rusty bit to prove it.

I suppose I'm common enough. I camefrom this dirt, from dark Kentucky ground

steeped in blood and steep beneathmy feet. All my life, it's always up

and down. I know the lay of the land,and like any rude provincial man,

I am content with what I know.I know to find the yellow bar

of moonlight pouring like a soulfrom the gap between two shrunken boards

of the barn, a soul beyond the bodyand not inside it. Part of me

resides out there, and part of youis out there, too. Let's hope we've got

that much in common, a fair amountif you think about it very long.

That's something to ponder, thinking long,not hard or deep, but long, in time

and distance—I do it all the time,though, slowly, and, as you can see

I haven't gotten very far!Aw shucks, I've barely ever left

the county, hardly gone beyondthe hill, because I like it here.

This morning, I took my pocketknifeand ate a turnip like an apple,

as raw as love, and right out of the ground.It doesn't get more commonplace

than that, the dirt and bitternessundone by a single purple curl

from the blade I sharpen Sunday nightsto keep it ready for the week.

Then I watched the horse's withers bristle;I saw the finger of the branch

reach out to find the wind; I heardthe bird who never lets me see her—

she was telling me hello, and allI did was whistle back, like that—

my dog ran circles around it all,the briars bounced with joy as he weaved

his song and being through them. And thenthe moon came up and I went out

to see it for a while. And that'sthe way things are, a story here

and there, but mostly here. There's hopein a world that's slowly happening,

according to its own design,if you want to call it that. O, yes,

there's sorrow here, not a day goes bythat isn't stabbed with common sorrow,

with death, regret, and loneliness,and some of us get a bigger portion

of the little tragedies. That's notuncommon, though, now is it?

I've had my share and I'll have more,and so will you. What matters most

is not so much what happened once,but what will happen next. Who knows?

And then the moon rose up behindthe barn and I went out to see it.

And then I went to sleep, and thenI dreamed, and in my dream I saw

a red light tumble like a leafthrough the sky; in the morning something else

was going to happen, I knew it, butI knew I didn't know it yet.

A Panegyric Against the Consolation of Grief

A what? A panegyric againstthe consolation of grief? Ooo-wee!

I'll be damned if that's not a mess of the mostgod-awful, highfalutin' words

I've ever heard—a bitterness!to the mother tongue which is more at home

with my heart is sore and heavy-laden,as if the heart has pulled too much,

and in our especial rural scene,as someone called it once, that puts

the heart in the company of a teamof mules...