Sunday, May 19, 2013

In Ireland There Was A Certain Relationship

One pisses next to the lilac and a little steam rises. In the distance a crow cries, and closer one answers. That was my first real line of poetry, and it emerged from a lonely and difficult time. I am always reading, I am always writing. The old dog waited for me when I stopped in the forest to pray but not this one. Dandelions unfold slowly. An abundance of blue jays, raucous at the feeder, signify nothing. As a bear is never not welcome. Perception matters! Your parents still live in Novosibirsk, and write often but hate the phone, which we both agree speaks well of them. I am not your story though I do visit from time to time. In Ireland there was a certain relationship with music that one regrets giving up. Even movement is an illusion. One longs to deepen and can only do so alone. Letting go is easy once you see there is nothing to lose. It made you cry a little, knowing I read Doctor Zhivago without being asked. One makes contact with what is and is relieved. The stranger beckons, always, and we incline in that direction. I remember Him marking the dust, as if working through some interior puzzle before rising to speak with such clarity, such wisdom. The circle widens, becomes luminous, and opens.

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