A poem from David Young’s 2000 collection At the White Window brings us this versatile poet in one of his many possible guises—in this case, courting the stillness, silence, and openness to loss which usher in something entirely other. Such surprising gifts are found throughout Young’s recent “New and Selected” volume, Field of Light and Shadow, which collects his work across more than 40 years.
The House Was Quiet on a Winter Afternoon
Someone was reading in the back,
two travelers had gone somewhere,
maybe to Chicago,
a boy was out walking, muffled up,
alert on the frozen creek,
a sauce was simmering on the stove.
Birds outside at the feeder
threw themselves softly
from branch to branch.
Suddenly I did not want my life
to be any different.
I was where I needed to be.
The birds swirled in the dusk.
The boy came back from the creek.
The dead were holding us up
the way the ice held him,
helping us breathe the way
air helps snowflakes swirl and fall.
And the sadness felt just right,
like a still and moving wave
on which the sun shone brilliantly.
Learn more about Field of Light and Shadow by David Young
Download the broadside: “The House Was Quiet on a Winter Afternoon”
For the moment that I was reading this I didn’t want my life to be any different, either.
I tried to download the broadside, keep getting an “access denied” page on Scribed. I’ve never been too fond of Scribed in the first place, but I’m not blaming this on them… it’s obviously that someone sent out an incorrect link or has forgotten to make the item public at the correct time.
“The House . ..” has a nice feel to it. Easy to relate to.
The link to the broadside doesn’t allow access.
Wonderful, wonderful poem!
Wistfully hopeful.
David Young’s poem “The House Was Quiet on a Winter Afternoon” echoes the brilliant silence of a perfect winter afternoon. When a moment and its fledgling thoughts are captured as Mr. Young has done, then all living, struggling to survive and even dying has an ideal place in our hearts. His poem takes me back to another cold winter’s day.
Christmas holiday vacation found my young and eager, trigger finger itching to do that, which made us human a long time ago. A shiny black Daisy Air Rifle was slung over my shoulder as I looked in vain for a target on the wing. The small pond at the end of our country village street often had small patches of open water that birds would visit during the brisk New England winter. A warm deep spring fed that pond; even a cold Nor’easter couldn’t freeze it completely. Nothing but nothing moved down there though. The quiet stillness was my only prize.
Later at home, I chanced to see a small sparrow shivering on a tree branch in my back garden. Prey, I thought. It was an easy shot from my back porch, but Dad saw me down the bird, and stopped me in my tracks as I scurried toward my quarry.
“So you killed a defenseless bird.”
“Yea, did you see that; one shot from a hundred feet. Good shooting wasn’t it?”
“It might have been good for you, but what about the bird?” He said with a look that told me I was in trouble. “Go in the garage, get the pickaxe and a shovel, then give the poor creature a decent burial.”
“But Dad the ground’s frozen solid.”
In his crisp laconic style, he said, “Just do it; learn what humanity is all about.”
I never fired a rifle since. The silence between those pickaxe blows and thoughts that laid the motionless, warm bird to rest resound in my memory.
R.L.L.
JM and LuAnn: We’ve updated the Scribd link in the post above to one that might work for everyone. Cheers!
Thanks! I was able to access the broadside and add it to my collection.