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A Poet's Journal: February 20th, 2015

  February 20th, 2015 How much of our day is determined by the first few moments after we wake?  And how much have we already decided of ourselves when we are ready to step out from our place of rest?  There is some importance in asking this.  We like to believe that the place of rest holds some physical comfort that we can come back to in time, remaining unchanged, because we ourselves have spent the day going from one thing to another.  But there is always this underlying fixation that what is far from us is truly the thing that will bring us the most support.  The moment that I find myself confronted with something that I can't get around, whether it be plans, obligations, or simply self-imposed rules, I immediately think to something far away, something I don't have that I want, something that I could use, something that I could read; this is the reward for the effort. There is never really enough time for us to be a part of these things, we only use them to get something e
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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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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, recommençai
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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: February 14th, 2015

  February 14th, 2015 What is with the recording of a journal if it is not to look back upon it one day and see our ignorance, and to a lesser extent, find out the times that we have been most genuine.  The truth is that it is difficult to like oneself in hindsight because we can see that we are merely running up against our own ego time and time again, wondering why things are this way and always asking what if.  Our whole sense of individuality is based on the thought that we are different, that we suffer more, are happier, more discerning, always the better or worse of everybody else; but if it comes to us as such, if we must convince ourselves that the materiality of our thoughts is the only way to end our troubles, then that means that we are lacking something either way, that we are ignorant of whom exactly we truly are and only look into ourselves to find an answer satisfying enough.  It is rare indeed to find someone completely hidden, whose own words do not lean upon him for s
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A Poet's Journal: October 7th, 2013

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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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