The Size of Spokane

April 21, 2009 by +Marj Wyatt
Filed under Marj Wyatt's Musings

	Tweet

This post is not about business or marketing in any sense other than we have to pursue our passions to live our life dreams. Sometimes, we are so caught up in our material pursuits, we do not take the time to pause and consider what we may be missing by choosing to not be aware of what is beautiful in our midst.

This poem arrived in an email subscription from The Writer’s Almanac years ago. I have never forgotten how this profound poem affected me when I first read it and have since shared it with many of my friends and colleagues.

Distributed by email from The Writer’s Almanac
WEDNESDAY, 10 SEPTEMBER, 2003
Poem: “The Size of Spokane,” by Heather McHugh, from Hinge and Sign (Wesleyan University Press).

The Size of Spokane
The baby isn’t cute.
In fact he’s a homely little pale and headlong stumbler.
Still, he’s one of us-the human beings stuck on flight 295 (Chicago to Spokane);
and when he passes my seat twice at full tilt this then that direction,
I look down from Lethal Weapon 3 to see just why.
He’s running back and forth across a sunblazed circle on the carpet-something brilliant,
fallen from a porthole.
So! it’s light amazing him, it’s only light,
despite some three and one half hundred people, propped in rows for him to wonder at;
it’s light he can’t get over, light he can’t investigate enough, however many zones he runs across it, flickering himself.
The umpteenth time I see him coming,
I’ve had just about enough;
but then he notices me noticing and stops-one fat hand on my armrest-to inspect the oddities of me.
****
Some people cannot hear.
Some people cannot walk.
But everyone was sunstruck once, and set adrift.
Have we forgotten how astonishing this is?
so practiced all our senses we cannot imagine them?
foreseen instead of seeing all the all there is?
Each spectral port, each human eye is shot through with a hole,
and everything we know goes in there, where it feeds a blaze.
In a flash the baby’s old;
Mel Gibson’s hundredth comeback seems less clever;
all his chases and embraces narrow down, while we fly on (in our plain radiance of vehicle)
toward what cannot stay small forever.