Skip to main content

Posts

A Poet's Journal: June 30th, 2014

June 30th, 2014

A 4-day hike in the Basque Mountains

Lying low upon the ground, breathing in the night air, and awakening to a slight chill, though it is the middle of summer, is enough for the body to regain its vitality.  It would be easy here for the mind to leave its thoughts to the scattered mist, but even if we tell ourselves that an unfettered freedom lies before us upon the trail, there is always something of our nagging and mundane lives following.  The contrast is too simple for us not to notice, and instead of feeling enlivened by it, there is the realization that we have not yet broken free from it all, but neither have we decided what we want to break free from.
A constellation arose on the door of our tent at night, and following it, the first rays of sun spread through our damp affairs with the enduring scent of heat--all of it though matters not unless one can see the place and the meaning it gives to his onward movements.
Douglas Thornton
Recent posts

A Poet's Journal: June 9th, 2014

June 9th, 2014

What seems beneficial to us and our lifestyle often degenerates into the morbid condition of an all too simple belief that what we have found is the sole means for our survival.  It is like the frog who one day jumped into the ditch of water, diving to its depths and basking upon the edges, but little saw the sun shrink its new-found paradise everyday.  Though perhaps it could notice the changes in its surroundings, for some unknown reason it refused to leave, until it found itself one beautiful morning stuck in the mud.  All of us find ourselves up to our chins before we realize we should make a move, and even then, perhaps, never do.  Today I happened to find this little frog shriveled and dried up in its ditch.
Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: June 2nd, 2014

June 2nd, 2014

A rock shelter--cold rain and fog had turned the landscape into something so pleasingly strange, that though I know most of these paths and slopes, it could not keep me from being lightheartedly curious in my way, and drove me towards trickling creeks and hidden gullies, forever devoid of the same luster in fine weather.  The season is not real today, and where I sit now, as the silence echoes off these carved walls and birds land at the foot of the cave, is a moment unpassing.  Here, somehow, lives the ancient truth that things change independent of time.
Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: May 26th, 2014

May 26th, 2014


'The impoverishment of imagination' was a phrase I read the other day in regards to Milton and his poem, the overcoming of which would be no surprise to any of us could we calm the source of idle thought.  The plane of reality must spread out before us so openly, that if there is ever any bias, the distance shall not lose its vivacity, nor all the sustenance that was in the heart run out into the stagnant pools of anticipation.  But even this is merely the whisper of vanity; for whenever something inwardly is given a motive for production, the nature of what we saw deep inside us becomes the object by which we miss our mark.  Most of the time, by the end of our projects, we are deluded as to what they really are; and it is only now that I am coming to realize that any of my undertakings, though they may take months to accomplish, always come back to the initial idea I started with, no matter how many evolutions they have undergone.  Imagination becomes impoveris…

A Poet's Journal: May 15th, 2014

May 15th, 2014


Hope comes at the end of the day and the whole body is lightened.  The day is over and the mind no longer subject to its suffering.  Yet body and mind are never so long inconsistent to one another except when the thought believes itself an extension of action.  For it is then that the end must come, that we seek with great anticipation the habitual comfort that has been hidden in our liberation from the burdens we are constrained to undertake.  Hope comes and with it the insensitive eye that we are one with our nature, but nature does not await the future, it waits upon no ideal moment.  The thought and the action are not a part of striving toward our nature, but merely obscure it by searching--for how often have we not found that the dullest and most distressing moments in hindsight become the happy and most eventful memories of our past?
Douglas Thornton