RETURN TO A LANDSCAPE

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This morning north
and east of what
was once my home,
the dusky mountains
trace their frozen
undulations mystified
against a salmon sky.
In the middle distance
cozy little houses
tuck themselves among
deep mounds of snow,
exhaling from their
brick red chimneys
all I know
of them or theirs.
Nearby the pointed firs
point up, to pointlessness
through january air.

Nowhere is home.
So home is everywhere.

16 responses »

  1. A salmon sky is always worth returning for.

    And those chimneys, working overtime in North America these days…

    but I like how they exhale cozy knowledge in your poem.

  2. Hi Cynthia: Yes, now I believe that you are a painter as well as a poet. Your poem is so visual that I can see the painting – it seems slumbering peaceful until the sad conclusion – I’m sorry that your heart hasn’t found a home yet. Maybe time, Beau and blogging will fix that? Cheerio, Jane

    • Hello Jane—Today I was reading a poem on a blog (The Little Planet Daily) by Burl Whitman, the final stanza of which captures something of what I mean by “home.” The poem is entitled “Seeing Heaven”:
      “…..It is in the deepest sense like going home, maybe not to your
      family
      but to the people who loved you
      before you got here.”

      Cheerio, my dear fellow blogger (and calligrapher)

  3. Oh Cynthia, this is such a visual poem! I just love the line
    “exhaling from their
    brick red chimneys
    all I know
    of them or theirs”.

    This took me to the journey we make from here in the north down through to Wales when we are on our way to Holyhead for the ferry over to Ireland. I love the view of all the cottages nestled into the mountains.

    And as if that wasn’t enough, those last two lines left me quite in awe of your writing.

  4. Nowhere is home.
    So home is everywhere.

    These lines have really stuck with me for months now. What a positive affirmation! This poem reminded me of “The Snow Man” by Wallace Stevens with its brittle sense of displacement and negation ending up with the nowhere being a “not nowhere”.

    • Cynthia Jobin on June 2, 2014 at 10:02 pm said: Edit

      It’s amazing, and humbling, for me to think the words stayed with you, Natalie. It’s mysterious but true that the creative circle a poem needs, in order to live, is not completed without the holy ghost–the reader. You got me thinking about Stevens’ Snow Man. I suspect we were trying to get at the same thing….wish he were alive so I could question him about it, but then he wouldn’t be one to give answers, I suspect. I have thought of you often; hoped all was/is well. It has become quite true that nowhere is home, and home is everywhere. I am becoming resigned ( don’t know if that’s the right word) to feeling disoriented and at the same time more at peace than ever. My sister keeps asking me if I feel at home, yet, in my new place, and I suspect I never will again feel at home as I once did, but there’s a strange at-homeness about that…..here we go with Snowman and Landscape again!
      It’s wonderful to hear from you….thank you for gracing my in-box this evening.

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