Skip to main content

Posts

Showing posts from June, 2021

A Poet's Journal: February 26th, 2015

  February 26th, 2015 How rare to have body and mind on the same page!  It is not easy to do the things we want when we want to; the auspicious moment always seems to grow from inability and our inability from a desire for something more.  Imagination drags us through this lonely field, giving us our tasks, our worries, making the distance around us insufferable.  And so whenever I have something to do, it is very difficult not to get caught up in the imagination of doing it before it is actually done, working through it a hundred times.  I am not speaking of preparation or details here, but the simple idea of a future to come, and what that future might bring, and how we might handle that--this is the imagination, this is the gateless gate, firmly shut and too defiantly high to look over; this is the gate that never was nor ever has been a gate.  Yet it is richly adorned and so much a part of our inability that it seems better to look at and keep closed rather than pass right through

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

A Poet's Journal: February 19th, 2015

  February 19th, 2015 To the east, Jupiter is arriving earlier in the evening sky each day; today, a perfectly dull white dot in the fading blue expanse.  Looking at it, one feels as if he were falling into infinity. I have always read Thoreau in winter and spring; his words are filled with the melancholy of these months, and no matter how many times we come over the same passage, it remains steeped in a relationship that is filled with the turnings of human life.  Keats has been read as a complement alongside, though I find it difficult to veer from only one or two of his most mystical passages.  We have written so many words, but none of them has ever been enough to keep us silent; the hardest thing is perhaps letting them go, for the word always dies but our feeling for it always wants it to continue on the same plane, eternal, and for this reason confine ourselves to the most rudimentary meaning.  If we cannot look at anything as if it were a part of the ephemeral, as if it were fa