Skip to main content

Posts

A Poet's Journal: October 23rd, 2014

  October 23rd, 2014 It is tempting to believe that in the lives of the past there was never a dull moment.  Take the life of any dead poet and his years seem as minutes, and every great word or sentence that was conceived by him is as if molded into every second of his life.  There is such an ideal that goes along with it, it is hard to believe they ever took the time to cook for themselves, or do housework, or were prey to the mundane emotions of life.  Boredom, I doubt, has evolved over the centuries, but why do we not see it in them?  What makes us believe that we are so lowly we have not yet reached a state of awareness, the kind of which appeared open to the poets of the past?  It is easy to suffer, but harder to turn that suffering into something no one will ever bat an eye at.  Perhaps what we believe of the past is only our unrealized suffering coming into view.  But perhaps it all comes from our trying too hard, of our making the most of each moment; for it is all too much of

A Poet's Journal: April 12th, 2013 Part 1

April 12th, 2013 Part 1 I can think of no problem these last few days that does not take all my concern and energy, yet it be no present worry; for it is the intimacy of present concern which is relaxing, though it be ever so troubling.  But I see not in this a resignation to fate, in which case I take for granted every outcome; rather, the amount of time the problem takes is a refuge for importance and the line of action taken, and this is what most consider a job well done. There are, however, choices which occupy a great part of my time, which to most seem no reason to doubt: I have spent half the morning deciding if and when I should take a shower and half the evening preparing a walk that never comes to focus--for it is simply in this kind of world, about these sort of things, that neither decision matters.  It is, of course, only through true moments of clarity that my personal appearance becomes enjoyable. We may weigh every option and cede to any fate, but we all sea

A Poet's Journal: March 4th, 2013

March 4th, 2013 Whether we are brave or vulnerable, the world is so.  For it is easy to believe that the earth upon which we stand is a playground for our hearts, but then we are no better than a harsh reply to an honest question posed long ago.  'What do you think?' the earth seems to say when we find a bit of solitude in nature.  And how often do we reply with a description of the trees, the birds, and the flowing creek, and then tell them how we feel; or yet do we run off into some activity in hopes that an answer will soon come upon us, because thinking, at times, seems counterproductive.  But it is here I find that this question comes not from the earth, but me, and my reply, the way the world tries to speak--for it is always in constant reply to us.  The problem, however, is to find out which question we have posed. Douglas Thornton

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

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

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