Skip to main content

Posts

Newly Published Poem: The Forest Opening

  July 20th, 2021 Triggerfish Critical Review has recently published Issue #26 with a poem entitled: The Forest Opening by Douglas Thornton. Please click on the following link to read the poem and the reviews that go along with it! Triggerfish Critical Review: The Forest Opening by Douglas Thornton
Recent posts

A Poet's Journal: February 23rd, 2015

  February 23rd, 2015 To have something meaningful before us, or produced by us, or in light of our imminent approach, is something we busy ourselves with without reprieve.  There is not the slightest question that we are fulfilled by something that is fulfilling, but it is only in our act of distinguishing it as a goal, or as a fact outside of ourselves, that we turn it into an accepted and pleasing form of nihilism. At the very end of dreaming, just before I awake, I am sometimes stricken by an immense form of inspiration, but upon waking, find that it was all just an illusion, or what I believed so full and rich, is no longer understandable, or is misinterpreted; the two worlds never seem to end in the same conclusion.  And so this is what meaning puts before us, it gives a desire to attain, but in attaining, it has already led us to something else.  Satisfaction only lasts as long as the attainment remains present, so it is only the worth of something that keeps us going.  To do so

A Poet's Journal: February 20th, 2015

  February 20th, 2015 How much of our day is determined by the first few moments after we wake?  And how much have we already decided of ourselves when we are ready to step out from our place of rest?  There is some importance in asking this.  We like to believe that the place of rest holds some physical comfort that we can come back to in time, remaining unchanged, because we ourselves have spent the day going from one thing to another.  But there is always this underlying fixation that what is far from us is truly the thing that will bring us the most support.  The moment that I find myself confronted with something that I can't get around, whether it be plans, obligations, or simply self-imposed rules, I immediately think to something far away, something I don't have that I want, something that I could use, something that I could read; this is the reward for the effort. There is never really enough time for us to be a part of these things, we only use them to get something e

A Poet's Journal: February 19th, 2015

  February 19th, 2015 To the east, Jupiter is arriving earlier in the evening sky each day; today, a perfectly dull white dot in the fading blue expanse.  Looking at it, one feels as if he were falling into infinity. I have always read Thoreau in winter and spring; his words are filled with the melancholy of these months, and no matter how many times we come over the same passage, it remains steeped in a relationship that is filled with the turnings of human life.  Keats has been read as a complement alongside, though I find it difficult to veer from only one or two of his most mystical passages.  We have written so many words, but none of them has ever been enough to keep us silent; the hardest thing is perhaps letting them go, for the word always dies but our feeling for it always wants it to continue on the same plane, eternal, and for this reason confine ourselves to the most rudimentary meaning.  If we cannot look at anything as if it were a part of the ephemeral, as if it were fa

A Poet's Journal: February 16th, 2015

  February 16th, 2015 Dreams are enough to make us believe that our own personal view of the world is somehow the secret underlying meaning for which all things happen.  They are the confidence which renders meager doubt into absolute truth and hesitation into full-on action.  But none of us will admit that dreams are reality, that they are not illusion, nor that they are always positive, and yet time and again we are told to live by them, to follow them, and to play the role which we have fictionalized in our heads. Though it is separate in our understanding, the dreams of sleep and the emanations of our waking hours, are but one and the same.  There is even a certain pleasure in pondering if the exotic nature of our dreams holds a meaning to the current situation of our lives.  Such is the wonderment of recognizing the imaginative play of the real and the illusory, or the duality that seems to balance out life, because somewhere within the dream we believe there is a reality at which