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Showing posts from September, 2018

A Poet's Journal: February 26th, 2015

  February 26th, 2015 How rare to have body and mind on the same page!  It is not easy to do the things we want when we want to; the auspicious moment always seems to grow from inability and our inability from a desire for something more.  Imagination drags us through this lonely field, giving us our tasks, our worries, making the distance around us insufferable.  And so whenever I have something to do, it is very difficult not to get caught up in the imagination of doing it before it is actually done, working through it a hundred times.  I am not speaking of preparation or details here, but the simple idea of a future to come, and what that future might bring, and how we might handle that--this is the imagination, this is the gateless gate, firmly shut and too defiantly high to look over; this is the gate that never was nor ever has been a gate.  Yet it is richly adorned and so much a part of our inability that it seems better to look at and keep closed rather than pass right through

A Poet's Journal: October 12th, 2013

October 12th, 2013 Morning and evening have such an effect on the mind that it is a great consternation to wonder if it is the incline of the sun or the opacity of thought that keeps us from experiencing the world the way we think it should be.  From the one we are ever ready to see the intimacy for which to set ourselves down in its presence; and from the other to feel that instant of appearance wherein the whole land shall embrace an ephemeral perspective. Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: October 9th, 2013

October 9th, 2013 The joys and contentment of this world provide us with such a meaningful place that it is rather lamentable to find out that the grounds for their existence are weighed by the ruling hand of man, and man is subject to fault, and that even his fault may be given the appearance of success.  If we are confined to his limits, we are all kept busy by his inventions and make no greater use of them than they of us and though we may submit or rebel to his idea, we cannot change it, but that we are the bearers of this idea as well proves that we are not slaves to its existence.  Perhaps the most worrisome thing about this is that we are driven to get out of life a maximum potential of gain and comfort--cultural perceptions that change with time--and by this pass up what it is that we are actually trying to understand: a reason to have faith in life itself.  But there is also a capacity for a minimum effort, where monetary value only becomes compensation for what is super

A Poet's Journal: October 7th, 2013

October 7th, 2013 To peruse the pages of forgotten books is a pastime in which I shall always partake; and though it turns out that very few sentences are actually read, the mere fixture of the words, or the subject, create an affinity in the mind apt to deeper contemplation.  Hardly can such a book be opened before we feel exist a mystic relationship with what is old, and even more so to the obscure, and far from leading us into a clear path of understanding, that same awkward and unsettling sentiment transfixes us and our thoughts drift back and forth upon the page until it is no longer the story to which we are attached, but the power of our imagination.  It is only when we feel we need to know something that words become our greatest let down; they are but a means to the mysterious--for even among the driest of archaeological accounts there remains something so unilluminating, that were the greatest poet to take up their theme, he could not inspire a finer feeling than the de