the brother of childhood

On impulse I picked up Judson Mitcham's now out of print  first volume of poetry, Somewhere in Ecclesiastes, this evening and turned to this poem. He is from my hometown and I've loved his poetry for years, since before I knew he had known my parents in his youth and that my mother had taught him Sunday school. He has written a couple of very fine novels and about three books of poetry. I'm not sure what he's doing now, but he was creative writer in residence at Emory University in Atlanta last I knew.


What You Have Need Of

Again, the stars gathered like children at dark
into light, taken like the clearest of dreams
into quiet, yet there, you are gone.

Once, the old World Book still tucked under your arm,
you led me into a field, away from the lights of houses,
to show how the whole figures are not there,
and therefore, you draw your own lines, how then
you can link what's scattered into anything.

And what you have need of flares in that far
eternity that dies too, quiet village of the universe.

Tonight, when sleep, failing, has fallen into old grief,
I have walked out into the back yard, hearing that voice,
and waited where the land slopes downward miles
to the town's lights, a clear lake raised to the stars,
darkness floating on the far last ripple of streetlights.

There are those who defeat their dreams, who know,
when the brother of childhood stands in the doorway,
not to believe, but I am not one.

--Judson Mitcham