A Poet's Journal: October 25th, 2013

October 25th, 2013

Found a pair of goat horns on the trail today so massive and weather-beaten as to make one think of an old satyr bounding across ridges and hiding in the crevices of mountains. All the hawthorn berries have gone from the trees, but the holly vibrantly red, for the two seem not to grow far from each other in these parts. A resin taken from a pine of some sort a few days ago has finally tempted me to chew on it, and the texture, like a soft candy at first, soon turns to the consistency of gum, but the flavor lasts longer and is much more agreeable. The south wind has died down after two extremely windy days, and somewhat cooler; the fish flash against the bottom of the river at low tide. Low, slanted sun-rays--a wonderful, autumnal feel to the day.

Douglas Thornton

Comments

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

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…

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

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.

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…

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…

From a Poet

Search This Blog

Nepalese Notebook: September 13th, 2014