From a Poet

Whether it be a blessing to be recognized for the work one creates, or that it simply pass into oblivion, it is not without some sort of worry that we undertake what we feel to be our duty and try to see in it the bit of perfection that we had hoped for.  Deception hides at every turn and what has been raised by indecision often leads to the regret that it were better left alone.  In truth, there is no middle ground in the work of art, it is rather the source from which all things have been defined, therefore it is we who return to ourselves by its acceptance.  Let others then decide what are the rules of any given art, we must simply believe ourselves to have put forth something according to our nature, and if it is individual, it shall have the good fortune of being universal. These sentiments, of course, have not passed lightly, but it is with the renewal of bringing forth another work that I look back to the former with a sense of evolution; for it remains as unfinished as

In the coming days a new book entitled Seasons Of Mind will become available in print and electronic form at bookstores and online.  The texts are composed of reflections that first appeared on this website in 2016, but were written in the years 2011-2012.  They have since been recast and revised to bring forth that idea which they were all bearing towards, that of an interpretation of the poetic spirit.  For those of us then who still hold a certain respect for the written word and find it not idle to peer into the dimensions of human thought, such a book will not be considered worthless. Upon the same foundations were built the works of Pascal, Aurelius, and Montaigne.  But of course, it has neither of these for its model, nor does it profess to put forth any philosophy unless it be that of giving breath to the resurgence of poetical thought. Therefore, if it is through the confidence of our own whims that we are led past the ignorance of our darkest hour, it is also with inspir

November 1st, 2013 On this, the day of souls, I was lead by an unknown urge to take up Taylor's Holy Dying , and enamored by the purity of style and expansive learning, I have yet been able to put it down.  Only yesterday had I started an article on the Algonquin Feast of the Dead, and it is with the greatest pleasure that everything since has been enveloped by the stillness of thought.  Eternal glory and eternal doom and the run of faith have all but instilled themselves in the habit of mind, and it is with difficulty that we find ourselves upsetting them in merely going about our daily lives. Douglas Thornton

October 28th, 2013 In the last moments of sleep this morning a treatise came before my dreaming mind upon the subject of certainty and uncertainty and how we were to distinguish each in our modern world.  The beginning was admirable and had such a sober confidence to it that the rest of the work seemed to take energy from it, but upon waking, my recollection of all the arguments vanished.  It is often quite befuddling to think upon those things we neglect and to ask ourselves the meaning.  For to remain at the beck and call of the mind forces us to consider what kind of person we shall be, whereas if we did not, we would always dream and soon forget that the kind of person we are is bound to the appearance of what we neglect. Douglas Thornton

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