Tuesday, December 08, 2009


I found this [profound, genius; sorry I can't avoid adjectives under the circumstances even though I know good writing need not lean on them] three line poem when I was in high school, before it could really mean anything to me, before I had lost or gained much of anything. I loved this poem then as a series of words that amounted to beauty. Now I love it as the brutal, plain truth. I came across one of the "prayer cards" from Eva's service, on which we'd printed this poem. I hate how those cards turned out. They are so plain, so artless. She deserved better and so did Merwin. But of course, nothing is enough of anything when it comes to her. And she is everything when it comes to me.


by W. S. Merwin

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.


  1. I'm so sorry for your loss...I feel like an idiot everytime I say these words. I know the word "loss" never sums it up.

    Those three lines say exactly how I am feeling right now.

  2. I love this poem. Hate that the words are so true. But isn't that some definition of what art should really be - something painfully true to you? Something brutally beautiful? This is brutally beautiful:

    She is everything when it comes to me.