Quotes to like or puzzle over: “There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.” ― James Salter, All That Is
Thinking in poems, making un-poems. Please do not consider items posted here as “poetry.”
I drank a wine of possibility with Rumi And shivered: How can I scribble a poem of nothing I’m not just fix upon the world a scribble meant to be that poem for I am Winter and Water in Time that Poem is me
I wrote a poem upon demand which struck me as odd, along with the rule of 44 words to be contained within. So many things off the beam on this which made it ravishing of course. And of and for and to the 10,000 things no less.
And so I did. Write it and yet not, more like a vomit of words, not mine.
(Only because it takes a while to dig yourself out)
When I think I can
I’ll transmute the poems in the air
the ones that haunt and suffocate
to paintings of English Gardens
or maybe a little stream where
silver fish glimmer and glimpse
the part of me that lingers there
When I think I can’t
I’ll slide the scale of dumbed down
notes to impossible depths of immortality
where the worn and sick climb
rocks of smooth and simple betrayal
not of human form but life
on songs that were not chiseled there
My home was at Cold Mountain from the start,
Rambling among the hills, far from trouble.
Gone, and a million things leave no trace
Loosed, and it flows through the galaxies
A fountain of light, into the very mind—
Not a thing, and yet it appears before me;
Now I know the pearl of the Buddha-nature
Know its use: a boundless perfect sphere.
Crossing the Mississippi River from La Crescent, Minnesota, into La Crosse, Wisconsin.This photo posted by Audrey Kletscher Helbling on her blog, Minnesota Prairie Roots.
The bridge on the left is my bridge, the one we walked across to get from our place along the Mississippi river to the other side. Pettibone Park and the swim beach awaited there. In the park there was also a lagoon where we ice skated in winter.
The bridge on the right, the smaller bridge, was added a few years back so now each is oneway. I was shocked to see the added bridge the last time I was home. The bridges are not the same color and certainly do not match in style. What offense to my childhood!
The erasure poem posted here on March 7, 2014, is about the bridge and river and sand. It’s about this bridge and a child’s feet that walked there with the past and the future, singing with the ghosts of time.