February 2018
Chris Anderson
anderson7715@msn.com
anderson7715@msn.com
I live with my two dogs on the edge of the university research forest, where I walk everyday and think and pray. I have taught at Oregon State University since 1986 and have been a Catholic deacon since 1987. I have written a number of books, including two books of poetry. My second book of poems, THE NEXT THING ALWAYS BELONGS, was published in 2011 by Airlie Press. For more, see www.deaconchrisanderson.com.
Author's note: I didn’t know Dick Allen and hadn’t read his poetry. But after the news of his death came out from Firestone, and I read the tributes, I felt drawn to his poetry, especially to “Cloud No Bigger than a Man’s Hand” and “Almost Nowhere in the World, as Far as Anyone Can Tell”—so much so that I felt a sharp regret at not having known him. And then I realized: this is how it works—the poetry goes on—I do know him a little, and he knows me—fleetingly, in the darkness.
All this exactly on the day after he died.
I feel a little funny about the poem—don’t want to trade on his memory or use it. But this was a gift, and I am grateful for it, and I’d like to think that Dick wouldn’t have minded. Doesn’t mind.
All this exactly on the day after he died.
I feel a little funny about the poem—don’t want to trade on his memory or use it. But this was a gift, and I am grateful for it, and I’d like to think that Dick wouldn’t have minded. Doesn’t mind.
In Your Light We See Light
-for Dick Allen
I watch moonlight fade through
the dark branches of trees on a winter morning.
Then darkness. Then sky again,
slowly brightening. This takes several minutes.
Like reading several poems by a man
the day after he died. I haven’t read him before,
but yesterday he died, and now
I’m reading a poem he wrote about a cloud
no bigger than a man’s hand, coming in off the sea,
and for a moment it takes my breath away.
I feel him talking to me. Then I go on with my day.
Up the street, on my neighbor’s roof,
the giant inflatable Grinch has fallen over again,
facedown. But I can still see him
shining, red and white and green. Lit from within.
© 2018 Chris Anderson
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