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A Poet's Journal: May 8th, 2014

May 8th, 2014

 Worry and apprehension are seated in every task we undertake, becoming a responsibility in themselves, that it is a pleasure to see falsely and have them crumble before us, finally knowing of their misguidance.  Yet it is often that this delusion comforts the appearance of judgment, leaving us open to the possibility that anything we choose will eventually become true.  Sometimes there is not enough powder in the gun and our plans do not follow through simply because of a too great apprehension of missing the mark; sometimes there is an unmistakable and deadly precision, that we are at a loss of how to describe our arriving at such an outcome.  The problem is not that worry and apprehension are inherent in the decision, it is that the decision asks us not to swerve in our judgment, whereupon worry and apprehension become the figments of our imagination.  This is the conditioned; what every fact, right or wrong, enforces us to realize everyday in our daily habits--to feel…
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A Poet's Journal: September 23rd, 2013


September 23th, 2013
A flock of geese passed on the 20th--only the second to date, the other being sandhill cranes.  The 22nd marked the equinox and the moon rose with such grandeur that I was able to follow the contours of a crater with my binoculars until it was enveloped in the earth's shadow.  It makes us wonder what things we would see if we could only look hard enough; or rather, if we could focus our mind on one thought with such illuminating perception, what would our view from the earth look like and where the paths of migration lead?

Douglas Thornton

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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 descrip…
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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
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Seasons Of Mind ON SALE NOW!!

There is time for nothing else in this world but what we ourselves have set afoot, and finding the majority of our efforts occupied with a certain hope of reward, it is not distasteful to give ourselves pleasure with simplicity and joy in far-seeming whims.  Thus, it is the hope that, with the release of Seasons Of Mind, those of you may find in it a pleasure to your free time and a joy in reflection.

Please note that Seasons Of Mind may be bought through any distribution channel (Amazon, Barnes and Noble, etc...) or by going to your local bookstore and ordering a copy.  But also, by clicking on the image below you get 10% off.  The ebook is still in the process of being formatted and should come out in the next week or two.
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A Poet's Journal: October 11th, 2012 (With Audio)

October 11th, 2012

A large group of cranes pass over. There is something so bland in life that we become subverse to the very details that make it up; and yet, brought to our attention, those details are of no special concern, though they have created our interest in the first place.  When we ask someone to stand out, we are not asking of anything genuine or long-standing, but merely a blind antagonist to draw us in to an ever greater competition of self-worth.  But how foolish!  For he who is willing to combat his fellow-man proves he is not on even terms with him and has not attained the superiority of triumph in his own mind.  Instead of the ideas of excellence that another puts forth, should he find the terms for his own conviction.  But if there is a sage of dire consequence, he has folded up his robe, for among the vast infinitude of prophecy there are but one or two decisions to be made.  Perhaps we could still hear his echo if it were not that he too has become so bland.
Dougl…
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NEWLY PUBLISHED TRANSLATIONS!!

Newly published at the Society of Classical Poets:  Translations of André Chénier’s Poetry, by Douglas Thornton

The Flute

Douglas Thornton

Ever tender and touching the moment,
When pressing himself the flute to my mouth,
Laughing and pulling me close to his breast,
He named me his rival and soon to be
Master.  My stiff and timid lips were shown
To breathe an air pure and harmonious,
And my young fingers, by his practiced hands,
Being raised and lowered a hundred times,
Though ever so trying, were taught to close
The different holes of the sonorous wood.

La Flûte

 André Chénier

Toujours ce souvenir m'attendrit et me touche,
Quand lui-même, appliquant la flûte sur ma bouche,
Riant et m'asseyant sur lui, près de son coeur,
M'appelant son rival et déjà son vainqueur,
Il façonnait ma lèvre inhabile et peu sûre
A souffler une haleine harmonieuse et pure;
Et ses savantes mains prenaient mes jeunes doigts,
Les levaient, les baissaient, recommençaient vingt fois,
Leur enseignant ains…
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