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Nepalese Notebook: September 8th, 2014

September 8th, 2014

Chitwan

Chitwan: the Nepalese Terai, the land of the Tharu.  These are the lowlands of the Himalaya, a vast jungle filled with rhinos, tigers, and crocodiles, interspersed with the irrigated fields of the natives.  From Kathmandu it is a 5 hours bus ride along narrow and sometimes precipitous roads in which the drivers take every advantage of passing one another regardless of blind curves or the stories of overturned buses only days before.  And yet the driving is not reckless; for when you see your driver passing another bus without any hope of gauging a head-on collision, you are able to find in his unshakeability a small comfort, knowing that the danger he has put you in, he may now save you from, as he swerves back with amazing dexterity only seconds before another bus would have brought upon your ruin. This is only one of the shocks though; the city of Kathmandu itself holds more than one could ever imagine; danger becomes no more than an inability to understan…

A Poet's Journal: March 1st, 2013

March 1st, 2013

The first responsibilities ever given us always hold in memory a special charm and seem as if to have happened while we were facing the sun.  It was then that we could know our own thoughts and persist with determination in our ignorance.  This is something age comes to take for granted, desiring to shade inexperience when it believes our first responsibility no longer, so that everything else becomes proper and congenial to its attitude.  And though it may be nonetheless true that our experience has grown past the naive importance of youth, there is something left behind and secondary to our maturity.  We have forgotten the primitive state of what it is to call things what they simply are, but in naming them so, only see what we have known and not what we have thought about them.  The first act of putting a halter on a horse, or buckling the saddle, or rubbing down its legs, holds something which is lost when the task becomes familiar.  We forget, when we finally see…

A Poet's Journal: February 28th, 2013

February 28th, 2013

I do not know if falcons are around all year and if they are, they certainly do not take to the sky as often, but when they do, it is on sunny days because they are a sign of mild weather.  It is the newborn flight of their young that indicates a change of season, whereon we should greet the sun urgently; and it is their hovering over high meadows that gives confidence to a long day out of doors.  I have always associated both the sun and the falcon together, and though we are affected the same way to rise up into the light when waking again to the vibrant rays and cool air of morning, we nevertheless, when they are in unison, seek them morally.
It is amazing how a fine day may make itself felt through the seasons, so that the crisp dawn of spring is something that warms the gentle hours of winter; or it is even true that the phenomenon itself of wind or rain resemble in appearance those of another time and give us to reminisce on the spirit thereof, that it seems…

A Poet's Journal: February 21st, 2013 (With Audio)

February 21st, 2013

The relation that we have to the appearance and formation of thought is something nonetheless worth taking note of.  The occurrence of any one thing is fated to leave us in a moment from which our perceptions and our ideals form the totality of its meaning.  The wake of the realization and not the realization itself is what we find ourselves contemplating.  If someone has ever searched for anything in their lives, they know what this means: until one part of that object, or the object as a whole is seen, they may not notice that it is right under their hands; but when it is noticed, they shall find that what they have taken hold of, has already in some ways been grasped.
Douglas Thornton

Newly Published Poetry: The Wintering-Ground (With Audio)

As winter is finally coming to a close, let us reflect upon the passing season and find a place where we are truly alive.  Please click on the link below or scroll down to read this newly published poem:
The Wintering-Ground by Douglas Thornton


The Wintering-Ground

Within what hut,
My woodland maid,
May I remain awhile?
Next what fire may my chills
Be warmed? Be there
A path that leads
Past stony piles and tells
Us not to walk alone?

I do not think,
My woodland maid,
Deep sleep my dreams will find;
Nor will my coldness cede
To warm sunshine.
But if my steps
Should weary long, nor learn
My ways to scorn, that hut
Through lost defiles
I’ll find once more.
Douglas Thornton