The desert of time between each poem, each insight, each plateau of understanding.
The steps towards the poem feel like small epiphanies,
but are not yet the poem; brief shimmers of hope the
poem may still come, while the weary shadowy downpour of doubts continue to dog my path.
Silence encourages me; no discontinuance, no refusal, no
critique, no patronizing, no flattery, no false hope.
The failure to conceive the line captivates me; its remoteness, its beckoning closeness reveals a seductive
movement that stirs me, awakens me, stimulates me;
trapped, frozen, eluded on the verge of something endless, I am wholly alert; ready to pounce.
Is it that the possible, even the improbable but still conceivable, at the moment of composition, offers possibilities so much more appealing than the immediate data of experience- the sensible material for the poem? Is this the appeal of the poetry of place, for example, or the poetry of time:
-I wanted to say it is ok
the dark sky is the way
it is anyway. Night
keeps its own counsel,
muttering to itself in the form
of shapes and shadows.-
Is this the attraction of the poetry of thought; i.e.
-the struggle for the poem is the poetry-or
-it is enchanting to have the time to think-?
Oh, how I miss the idea of pure poetry, I miss it
but I do not want it back; the same way I miss
the poetry of pure words, the poetry of pure
thought, the poetry of pure detail,
the poetry of pure meditation, the poetry of pure revolution,
the poetry of pure nonsense; will I never learn to
miss (let go of) the poetry of poetry, the
poetry of the thought of poetry,
that still continues to beckon, almost
like the surprisingly shocking, patient weave of dawn?
The like, the like the dark sky it revels for the poetry of cense. It is the poured time that steps, it is nonsense, me, wholly alert of how I miss it, but still that data of poems feels like each meandering detail. The poem, each poem, each place, for the poetry of poems are not the sensible, or failures revolutions of the poetry of left dawn. The same way I miss the poem. Is itself in the sensible, or the idea of pure let go, the poetry of poetry of the poetry of composition. Almost like poetics, wholly alert; ready to this, this the idea of poems— isn’t sensible, even in the poetry, the poetry of what will come.
*Not Yet* certainlly meant to call for a poem in response, and thanks, Jordan for responding with such a fine one. Something tells me I'll be responding back to yours... Thanks, Harry, but don't you think At 5 pm, it's easier to wait for the sunset? I like that weave even more... best wishes to you both, Nick
response, Sheila.
the like the dark sky
it revels for the poetry
of cense.
It is the poured time
that steps, it is nonsense,
me, wholly
alert of how I miss
it, but still that data
of poems
feels like each meandering detail.
The poem, each poem, each
place, for
the poetry of poems are
not the sensible, or failures
revolutions of
the poetry of left dawn.
The same way I miss
the poem.
Is itself in the sensible,
or the idea of pure
let go,
the poetry of poetry of
the poetry of composition. Almost
like poetics,
wholly alert; ready to this,
this the idea of poems—
isn’t sensible,
even in the poetry, the
poetry of what will come.
waiting now
for
the patient
weave
of dawn
it's only 5pm
and i'm watching impatiently
Nick, nice work, hks
a poem in response, and thanks, Jordan
for responding with such a fine one. Something
tells me I'll be responding back to yours...
Thanks, Harry, but don't you think
At 5 pm, it's easier to wait for the sunset?
I like that weave even more...
best wishes to you both,
Nick
'Night
keeps its own counsel,
muttering to itself in the form
of shapes and shadows.-'
>>>>>>
sliding
under a
blanket hiding out
hks
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