birth of a day

Lines

Unfelt, unheard, unseen,
I've left my little queen,
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
Ah! through their nestling touch,
Who---who could tell how much
There is for madness---cruel, or complying?

Those faery lids how sleek!
Those lips how moist!---they speak,
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds:
Into my fancy's ear
Melting a burden dear,
How "Love doth know no fulness, nor no bounds."

True!---tender monitors!
I bend unto your laws:
This sweetest day for dalliance was born!
So, without more ado,
I'll feel my heaven anew,
For all the blushing of the hasty morn.

John Keats

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this sweetest day
born into my dalliance
into my dewy dawdling
into the sauntering and dangling
of my soul:

it is singing
with the heaving of the tides
within in the morning's heat
welling up in my slumber

is expanding
blushing into
aurora rise

Anemone

between lights

.

An Acre Of Grass

PICTURE and book remain,
An acre of green grass
For air and exercise,
Now strength of body goes;
Midnight, an old house
Where nothing stirs but a mouse.

My temptation is quiet.
Here at life's end
Neither loose imagination,
Nor the mill of the mind
Consuming its rag and bonc,
Can make the truth known.

Grant me an old man's frenzy,
Myself must I remake
Till I am Timon and Lear
Or that William Blake
Who beat upon the wall
Till Truth obeyed his call;

A mind Michael Angelo knew
That can pierce the clouds,
Or inspired by frenzy
Shake the dead in their shrouds;
Forgotten else by mankind,
An old man's eagle mind.

William Butler Yeats

lugubrious cawing

white frosted meadows
frozen sunlight in the eyes
of a warm-winged crow

writing

"The business of the poet is not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary ones and, in working them up into poetry, to express feelings which are not in actual emotions at all. And emotions which he has never experienced will serve his turn as well as those familiar to him. Consequently, we must believe that 'emotion recollected in tranqulity' is an inexact formula . . . Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things." ~ T.S. Eliot


as for me, writing is an entering into other thoughtscapes, emotions and dimensions, rather than it is an expression of something.

it also is other dimensions entering into me - the writing is the journey, is the trip (of both, me and the words), and it is the process of writing itself that creates the emotion, the altered state of consciousness.

it's more an in than an ex.... an "into" rather than an "out of".

i'm not letting it out - i'm letting myself in...
.

amaryllis

.

ambiguity

watch yourself
leave yourself behind
in the eye of the crow

light your feathers
wrap yourself in sweet bark
and unravel the scrolls
of other times

let lose the canvas
of your whispering tent;
sun-drunk like seed
you must close
the shutters of the sky

the labyrinthine heart
keeps distance
as something lost
becomes a spark
followed through dust

in shades of dunes
the sift of sand
speaks braille

.

schrödinger's hatbox

imagine isaac newton, erwin schrödinger, and george berkeley standing around the cat box, discussing the cat's nature.

newton would say "a cat is a cat is a cat". schrödinger would speak of a 50:50 cat. and berkeley would claim that there was no cat at all, since nobody perceived it at that very moment.

the absolute cat, the potential cat, and the no-cat.

and upon opening the lid, what would they see?
a cat in a hat.
meow!



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