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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: April 2nd, 2014

April 2nd, 2014 It is hard to find something so named in our consciousness that is not subjective or open to other views and other means in other people.  It is we, who in our burdened perceptions, hold confidence in them, only to find that when they are presented to reality, their confidence in us never existed.  It is as if we have been climbing a tree, and once we get to the top, find that all the branches below us are too weak to support our descent--but how did we get up there in the first place?  We love being above our troubles and those who cause them, and even more to hand things down to them; we are the first to go, then tell them to come along, or the first to stop, and push them to go ahead.  The only thing real is the dimension of the unprovoked, neither starting nor finishing, but in our hands before we even know it's there. Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: April 1st, 2014

April 1st, 2014 What is beyond?  What is behind the next hill?  We tend to ask ourselves such things, desiring more than what is seen, and wanting just that part that we've imagined, to define the things that remain in front of us.  Our hike up the hill is met with another horizon and then another, and still more beyond, so that we are led to believe that when we reach a certain point, a new and sudden expanse will give us a perception of the moment.  But our disappointment recognizes itself time and time again and our last hope is an approximation of the present aspect: the long path goes down through infinity and life hangs on the verge of something immortal. Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: March 24th, 2014

March 24th, 2014 We find that when we strive after something the true aim is always masked from us, so that even if we set out to attain it very quickly and it is as quickly attained, there is a part which is ulterior and unexpected.  What we are after then, is only another name for what we shall get, and what we take will always be other than what we were given.  But that our lives must run once over and have to watch in others what we have already experienced, gives to age a discerning eye, while those in youth seem to overstep us, or failing this, are content with being blind.  Age does not want youth to experience what we have, it wants it to learn, and puts down its triumphs and defeats as a means for something to strive upon--and how simple and uniform life would be, but how base and groveling each of us!  We do not believe that pain or emptiness can be a liberation, but when we separate and turn inward, it is so.  A motivation arises that was not in us before, that leads to

A Poet's Journal: March ?, 2014

March ?, 2014 I have never been one to believe dreams hold such a power over an individual that they could change his perception of reality or even the memory of past events.  They are nonetheless fascinating symbols of the mind, but rarely give us enough matter for thought in our waking hours.  However, it was only this morning that I confused a very deep and vivid dream for the real-life memory of one held in common with another. I found myself one pleasant day at a small tower that had been a part of a now ruined castle not far from the city where I was living.  Inside this tower, which had been completely renovated and was now situated in a finely kept park, was the public library of the district.  All of the books were neatly set-up and easily accessible considering the small circular space of the tower; but there was one part which had to be accessed by a ladder put there for that purpose; and once in this crawl space, which was only of a height for someone to lean on hi

A Poet's Journal: February 28th, 2014

February 28th, 2014 There is no greater feeling than the sense of going somewhere, and though the body may scarcely move, it seems as if we penetrate with bold action into an unexplored land--for it is just this newness and unfamiliarity that we search for in the everyday.  But what is it that has changed from the moment before: our humour, our mindset, the way the light of day inclines through the window?  There is much to be learned when the mind is vigorous and all our pursuits as a forthcoming wave to overtake at each break the land it has only newly breached.  For as soon as the waters recede we expect flowers and grass and other signs of imparting life to appear because that which endures and persists in unfulfilled eternity will be renewed and wasted in the overflowing wake of thought.  The whole subsuming principle of life is at our hands the necessary impetus of the incomplete, blinking slowly in a world that has become too fast for calming our arrival on the distant sho