From a Poet

  February 13th, 2015 Aiako Harria yesterday, first time this year; overtaken by the beauty.  It is at about this time along the hillsides and in the thickets that the brown of the end of winter starts mixing with the green of the beginning of spring. But an outing like this, though refreshing, can do nothing for the interior state of mind when one is tired and helpless; it only offers a slight reprieve, but we are back again, missing it: the sights, the sounds, the smell of the forest--somehow it only adds to the misfortune.  It is difficult to wander along the thin trails because we have built up a reason and an inspiration for our coming; there is a goal, a new plant to find; something to be attained, a new path to take.  All the expectation dies with each step, and yet it is still beautiful, still appealing, still the key to some secret meaning we have created for ourselves; and when we stop and look at it all, we realize we are merely the sum of our attainments, the sum that keeps

February 6th, 2015 Snow today; a flock of cranes returning north.  It is mysterious the way things are set in motion.  There is plenty in our imagination to dream about, but none of it determines an actual course, and when we begin to look upon it as such, we are amazed already at what has sprouted up.  We think we know what the weather will be like tomorrow, what time we have to be at a certain place, what we need to have, what we need to do--in all of these things imagination plays a part and we are left with silly looks on our faces the moment we realize that we hold not the key, that we have not the meaning, that everything happens, not with our acknowledgement, but without it.  We live our lives centered around the fact that we know, scared of unknowing, and creating reasons to support our theory.  It is of course not the idea of imagining that is wrong, but of getting stuck in one dimension of it.  We are too malleable as people to hold such strict views.  Even the cranes, on one

  January 31st, 2015 Sometimes we impose our will so heavily upon something we wish to happen, that we easily forget, and even prefer not to know, what we have set out for.  It is only by some stroke of luck that we find the original idea in the overcrowded world of our own inflated personality and turn to it again, as if it were the triumph of superior intelligence.  It is like walking up the side of a mountain only to arrive at the top and declare that a mountain was never there to be climbed, but that our climbing defined it.  Everything is glorious in hindsight and serves the ego to desire more and keep capturing, while in the mean time we are merely pushing at things that we have forgotten the meaning to.  This is not to say that our lives should be planned out before every step, but does insist that the planning is always renewed or recreated by something we have not yet perceived, and possibly will never perceive, and so leaves us to creating our own small endeavors for comfort

  The Elevation Review has published a poem entitled The Hunter's Moon , which may be found on their website, or by clicking on the following link:  The Hunter's Moon by Douglas Thornton The Hunter’s Moon When all the sky is dark And there is just a cloud Of a height, illuminated By the far away sun, They gather what is the object Of the world, those who try To touch it. The cherished Are impressions of fullest night, When the gleam in our eyes Has not adjusted to the earth, As swift and nameless birds To hold our sight, make day Stand firm, while the spiritual Thought we sink down beside Moves on at its own abiding. Always kind in measure Behind the ferns, or up The hillside walking, has grief made The animal-spirit Known, but cannot call it by name, Long since, in the evening’s Low horizon, the dark Outlines of figures lie in wait. So bring the warm south wind To placid waters, and the streak Of summer’s falling star Near the inner calmness Of those who laugh on sunny days

  January 26th, 2015 For more than a week now I have set my mind on hiking, but have found some reason or other to deter me.  The chance of rain, cold weather, transportation, even the tiniest detail as what to take, have turned this self-inflicted obligation in to an inexpressible joy, not because they allowed me to go, but because the circumstances seemed viable enough to prevent me.  It is often the idea of expectation that is so frightening, but those of the physical world are so much easier to confront; for it is the imagination of what we expect, and what we think it will be like, that is the most damaging to our state of mind.  All of our actions are simple and clear-cut, but it is only when we reflect on how to deal with them that they become confusing; our problem arises in believing there is a standard to be attained, that there is something that we must figure out how to use.  Of course it is hard to deny this standard, or any standard, because it is reproduced countless tim