Monday, January 5, 2015

Luminous and Obvious

The wind begins somewhere up North, a sound pouring down across the barn like hunger or a bell tower toppling, and for a moment I perceive it as internal, then as something my shoulders have to carry a far distance, then as just the wind from which the idea of sails emerged. Desire knows the way as well and also sometimes cows. What passes passes, like cars on the interstate, while what remains remains, and longs to be noticed. The moon seems to float in the sky more luminous and obvious than I can manage at most given junctures, though where the forest leans tiredly into the field, I do cognize that the relationship between light and frozen water preceded what we call birth and will surely outlast death. Can I say that? Would you be salt otherwise? We don't own anything, not the night, not poetry, and not the heart that welcomes both. Mostly I read poets who know they are language writing itself, rather than distinct sentient objects using language to express said object's insights, preferences and so forth. How boring to think our thoughts actually matter! You go so far only to learn nobody said you had to travel in the first place, and so now what? Beet and turnip soup, last of the day before's bread, a lamp in which our hands meet, doves at the day's end. You are literally my love. You are literally the light I am following. Who cares how quiet it gets in the meantime?


  1. Good Morning Sean,

    This weekend I came upon the poetry of Dorothy Walters. I had never heard of her but can't seem to get enough of the simple beauty of her words. A few moments ago, I read this ... and was prompted to share:

    Morning Meditation

    I give up.
    I don’t know
    what this is,
    where it comes from,
    or why.

    I only know that
    when it happens,
    it tells me
    who I am,
    who I have been,
    will be always.

    Think of it this way.
    Say you are walking
    listening to the birds
    celebrating in the trees,
    perhaps a bit of sweet
    caressing the sand--
    when celestial music
    swells in your ear.
    Would you stop
    and look around
    to find the source?
    (Perhaps another stroller
    with electronics in his hand,
    or else musicians down
    on the shore.)

    Wouldn't you just
    hold your breath and listen?
    Wouldn't you reach out
    to touch any angels
    that were near?

  2. Good morning Cheryl. Yeah, that's a sweet poem. It is always a gift to discover those writers who were always near but somehow briefly until now had slipped our grasp . . . they are the near angels too . . . it's nice to hear from you, hope you're well . . . Love, Sean