…for Mr. Wasp…
…Curtains for Mr. Inch-Worm…
(click gallery to view large images)
(Many thanks to KB and Tiffany for showing me where to go with this one. It’s not their fault I ramble so…I’m not always good at following directions…and besides, they probably had no idea…they were undoubtedly just pointing at trees or something and I, of course, said, “Yes! That way! Of Course!” and went crashing off into the trees…)
“What if the delight in poetic form were actually a delight in and return to infantile sensualities?”
“…we see that what is childlike and infantile lies in the form, what is adult in the content. Content and form then make two poles, across which the magnetic energy of the poem arches.”
“The form pole pulls the poem back then toward infancy, the content pole pulls it forward into adulthood. Adulthood seems to be the recognition that there are others in the universe besides you, greater causes and greater beings. the poem surely needs character–the drive forward into experiences–probably embodying pain–that the infant never dreams of in his crib.”
…and this is why–in that arching electric zone of contact and conflict–
…and precisely where–in that very place within
where mind meets body…
“where the reader’s mind reaches toward something heard or uttered as though vocality were one of the senses.”
…where mind meat’s body, where inspiration mixes into the elixir of expiration, where fantasy confronts reality, where…
“…the social realm is invoked with a special intimacy at the barely voluntary level of voice itself.”
…where, in the beating of the suffering heart…
“Embarrassment–a halting consciousness of other people, the sudden barricade of social awareness, obstructing emotion and threatening to take over the mind–is in a way the most basic, irreducible manifestation of social reality.”
…the blossom of suffering…
“To be thrown back “forever” on oneself alone suggests a degree of mobility, a freedom from constraint and dependence, that is potentially exhilarating as well as deranging: a liberation, as well as a void.”
…becomes the creative act…
…and poetry leads to compassion…
“The path itself does not lie there waiting for you to walk along it. It needs to be cultivated, nurtured—literally, “brought into being.” Such a path might open up in a revealing moment of insight, only to be lost again through subsequent neglect. To believe in a path is not enough. One has to create and maintain it. The practice of the eightfold path is a creative act.”
…for this path we walk…
…this path we all walk…
…is always walked alone…
…this we remember as we walk…
(Susan challenged me to write a poem about hummus back in....umm...April, I think. I get around to things eventually...) Hum(m)us Hearth of soil and soul of stone, gather us to your bosom. Hum us like warmth into winter’s close conjuring. Hum us into the bellies of our love. Heirlooms live in ancient ovens leavened with our tailings, leavings telling of our ordinary meals, the most sacred shared by us, alone. Pulses from one to the one that sprang from her very soil (earth murmurs), the maker passes on the notes of a melody for the making. Six simple gifts, the land's material, ascend in scales, soft sound offerings of humble place; ordinals older than words; sounds fat and round and full of life. "Fully formed and transformed by the mouth’s own making, the soil's song sings itself in tongues' silence," mumbles humus, a tune down in its roots.
I am often struck (dumb?…or perhaps ‘struck’ like a bell!)
by the thought that words carry with them haunting constellations of spirits,
the meanings, associations, undertones, overtones, subtle reverberations, cultural references,….
“In description words adhere to certain objects, and have the effect on the sense of oysters, or barnacles.”
–W. C. Williams
…and that these constellations, just like spirits–like ghosts–are always changing
their disposition, their demeanor, and yes their meaning and intention.
“And the good writer chooses his words for their ‘meaning’, but that meaning is not a set, cut-off thing like the move of knight or pawn on a chess-board. It comes up with roots, with associations, with how and where the word is familiarly used, or where it has been used brilliantly or memorably.”
They go from well-intentioned to demonic in a blink of context,
a switch that can be flipped and tripped again, and yet….
“A labor no less difficult, no less phantasmagoric than alchemy. But then, of course, the condition of the lyric is the belief in the impossible.”
…they are still just words, not even real “things” which is what perhaps makes them all the more haunting, for in their vagueness, their lack of reality…
“Words mean something because they always threaten to sound like something else.”
There may in fact be a supermassive black hole at the center of our galaxy, in the midst of all that light, and I am convinced beyond any dark matter of a doubt that through that hole, on the other side of that event horizon, through that single singularity, there is a wet red wheel barrow and some white chickens. Everything depends on it.