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Showing posts from June, 2021

A Poet's Journal: April 21st, 2015

  April 21st, 2015 Watching the sunrise leaves us with a greater impression of what a day actually is.  When it starts up from the horizon, it does not have its sights set on how high it will go, nor what it must do, but only in giving off light, in clarifying what appears in front of it.  Our day already begins as the phantom of something we want to be, or have to be; before our eyes have even focused on the sun, we already think about when we can close them again; and so for many of us it never really rises, or hardly ever sets.  Perhaps the only thing decent in the world is to watch the sunlight brighten and fade, and leave all of our other actions to disappear beyond the shadow of doubt. Douglas Thornton

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