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A Poet's Journal: August 23rd, 2014

August 23rd, 2014


Sometimes we recognize the problem squarely in front of us, but take hold of it awkwardly; or sometimes we hold with a genuine hand that which needed not our guidance; and of the many other ways we may circle around the matter, it all comes down to aligning our perception with our intelligence, thereby forcing the former to perceive something that we have made ourselves believe, finding the solution inexistent, but nonetheless created by our own troubles.  Certainly problems exist and certainly solutions as well, but there is a point at which the mind is dulled and goaded into drudgery by them.  This derangement becomes a romantic illusion, which seems enviable and necessary to take after if we are to attain a somewhat unattainable goal--it is never taken for the stale nature it turns out to be.  For this very reason, confusion is cultivated because it is exciting and yields a chance to bring order, whereon solution becomes an end and not a means to create.
Douglas Th…

A Poet's Journal: April 12th, 2013 Part 2

April 12th, 2013 Part 2

Let it not be inferred that reasoning or any frame of logic be useless; rather, reasoning and logic do not at all times pertain to significance; and if there were a way that something could exist, and constantly catch our eye, so that we were aware of its becoming, though no change to us appeared, we would not need proof to tell us what our eyes had already seen. But before we know it, the truly taxing method of our lives has been prepared: the day becomes divided up according to our or another's need, or the nourishment of mind and body, and then of slumber, and we have not seen anything but the far-fetched and constant repetition of daily life. It is such a strange phrase 'daily life' and so hard to define, yet I think it not too different for any one of us to answer its questions, so much so that our concern almost wholly lies not with its particulars, but with the stress of living up to that phrase alone.  Long ago we had our rituals and sacred…

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 search for, …

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 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…