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Dara Wier’s Followers (45)
142 books
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Dara Wier
Goodreads Author
Born
in New Orleans, Louisiana, The United States
Genre
Member Since
May 2010
|
You Good Thing
—
published
2013
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In the Still of the Night (Wave Books)
—
published
2017
—
2 editions
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Remnants of Hannah
—
published
2006
—
3 editions
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Selected Poems
—
published
2009
—
2 editions
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Reverse Rapture
—
published
2005
—
2 editions
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Hat on a Pond
—
published
2001
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Voyages in English (Poetry Series)
—
published
2001
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Blue for the Plough
—
published
1992
—
2 editions
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Our Master Plan
—
published
1999
—
3 editions
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The Book of Knowledge
—
published
1988
—
3 editions
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Dara’s Recent Updates
More of Dara's books…
“That’s What the Dead Do
That’s what
the dead do.
The ones
who’ve died,
who’ve given up
their lives,
who’ve died for us
so that they say
to us
see here this is
all it means
to be dead —
to be no longer living and
to be both never
and always as never before
and after.
This is all
it means
the dead ones say,
So you die,
and everyone left living
sticks around.
You and everyone
who loves you
and whom you love
take some time
to mourn
with speechless desire,
and unspoken awe,
our long faces and
our sideways glances
(as if you might be
somewhere off
to the side),
here we come
with our living
fruit baskets and
soon to wilt white flowers,
good things
intended
to sublimate pain
to substitute one thing for another
& others pay
their respects
& others have their curiosity piqued
& a very few are glad you’re gone
though would never dare
say so
& most of all most
can’t care at all
and rightly so, everyone
can’t be this faced
with this much
that often
& that’s what
a death does
beyond doubt
one death says
what every death is,
& what’s out of sight
just over the horizon
not so long later,
a year or so
at most,
every one’s up & gone
on to other matters
the kinds of matters
that matter to the living
(your matter’s been burned
or by nature’s
routine chemistry
mostly dissolved) (but you
knew that)
(you knew all along)
finding reasons
to stay alive
finding work first
for fuel
& then for pleasure
& sex &
maybe love
or what passes
for love
& sex
maybe for adding
another
living human into the mix
for the rest of us
that’re left
& other ways
to pass the time.
Once thoughts
about how many of us
there are
involved
in so much
doing and coming
& going & searching
& hunting & gathering
& using up time
& space
& materials.”
― In the Still of the Night
That’s what
the dead do.
The ones
who’ve died,
who’ve given up
their lives,
who’ve died for us
so that they say
to us
see here this is
all it means
to be dead —
to be no longer living and
to be both never
and always as never before
and after.
This is all
it means
the dead ones say,
So you die,
and everyone left living
sticks around.
You and everyone
who loves you
and whom you love
take some time
to mourn
with speechless desire,
and unspoken awe,
our long faces and
our sideways glances
(as if you might be
somewhere off
to the side),
here we come
with our living
fruit baskets and
soon to wilt white flowers,
good things
intended
to sublimate pain
to substitute one thing for another
& others pay
their respects
& others have their curiosity piqued
& a very few are glad you’re gone
though would never dare
say so
& most of all most
can’t care at all
and rightly so, everyone
can’t be this faced
with this much
that often
& that’s what
a death does
beyond doubt
one death says
what every death is,
& what’s out of sight
just over the horizon
not so long later,
a year or so
at most,
every one’s up & gone
on to other matters
the kinds of matters
that matter to the living
(your matter’s been burned
or by nature’s
routine chemistry
mostly dissolved) (but you
knew that)
(you knew all along)
finding reasons
to stay alive
finding work first
for fuel
& then for pleasure
& sex &
maybe love
or what passes
for love
& sex
maybe for adding
another
living human into the mix
for the rest of us
that’re left
& other ways
to pass the time.
Once thoughts
about how many of us
there are
involved
in so much
doing and coming
& going & searching
& hunting & gathering
& using up time
& space
& materials.”
― In the Still of the Night
“An Ant in the Mouth of the Furnace
Sorrow likes itself most when it’s
At its best being
A barrier
Impenetrable. An obstacle.
A veil that can’t be torn.
When beyond its deckled edges
sorrow won’t let you see.
As if you were a blue blur on paper
intended to be a child’s image of heaven.
And it takes more bearing
because more of it is always coming.
And it takes up space where space has never been.
Where there is no space.
Where no space has ever been.
And it will not move.
And brings all else to a standstill.
To no longer be in a state of grief is also a state.
To encounter the respite it is
Is to judge
Sometimes one’s self
Other times others.
There must be a name somewhere
For what’s not there
For what doesn’t
By its aggravating presence
Begin to replicate what’s gone.
Goat in the snow.
My life’s work.
Man overboard.
Black & blue overcoat.
Orange eyes. Bleeding wall.
Ring-tailed neck riverbed blanket.
It’s not
As though
After all
Suits every blue circumstance
As if
— what’s that —
— what comes after —
After which is
Is no other
After afterall
No after other
All as if at
Last all that
That grieving
It is over —
So as to make room for another
You are doing something
With someone who isn’t here
How many conversations
With who isn’t
Able to talk back
Is one human allotted?
Things were only
Like they were
Because we were
Having them together.
Having them without you
Is another thing altogether
Before when
You once were
Here we was
A something never failing
We could
Be counted on
We would
Have always been
What we were
No wonder”
― In the Still of the Night
Sorrow likes itself most when it’s
At its best being
A barrier
Impenetrable. An obstacle.
A veil that can’t be torn.
When beyond its deckled edges
sorrow won’t let you see.
As if you were a blue blur on paper
intended to be a child’s image of heaven.
And it takes more bearing
because more of it is always coming.
And it takes up space where space has never been.
Where there is no space.
Where no space has ever been.
And it will not move.
And brings all else to a standstill.
To no longer be in a state of grief is also a state.
To encounter the respite it is
Is to judge
Sometimes one’s self
Other times others.
There must be a name somewhere
For what’s not there
For what doesn’t
By its aggravating presence
Begin to replicate what’s gone.
Goat in the snow.
My life’s work.
Man overboard.
Black & blue overcoat.
Orange eyes. Bleeding wall.
Ring-tailed neck riverbed blanket.
It’s not
As though
After all
Suits every blue circumstance
As if
— what’s that —
— what comes after —
After which is
Is no other
After afterall
No after other
All as if at
Last all that
That grieving
It is over —
So as to make room for another
You are doing something
With someone who isn’t here
How many conversations
With who isn’t
Able to talk back
Is one human allotted?
Things were only
Like they were
Because we were
Having them together.
Having them without you
Is another thing altogether
Before when
You once were
Here we was
A something never failing
We could
Be counted on
We would
Have always been
What we were
No wonder”
― In the Still of the Night
“There ain't no answer.
There ain't gonna be any answer.
There never has been an answer.
There's your answer.”
―
There ain't gonna be any answer.
There never has been an answer.
There's your answer.”
―
National Book Critics Circle
— 333 members
— last activity May 04, 2021 06:29AM
The National Book Critics Circle honors outstanding writing and fosters a national conversation about reading, criticism and literature.
