Saturday, October 31, 2015

Where was I?

Perhaps the mind is a book of lost images – spidery notes written in a wiry hand, a thing to be poured over and decoded –a map without a key or cross. A thing thus pursued by the mind often comes to resemble a dot on the horizon getting smaller and smaller until it is swallowed up by the landscape and only the voice remains - the utterance of a soundless sound.

Maybe as we maneuver these dimly-lit grey corridors of paths near-missing, overlapping but never quite converging, we are only likely to find what we are looking for while looking for something else. It must be there, somewhere. Go back. You will be able to find it if you try, because it is there. It is all there. Just unroll it and, frame by frame, examine the film.

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Becoming The Poem

Perhaps once erased a poem can start,  yet how to end while just beginning to question why the light lifts a little earlier today than yesterday as the sun sets over open water, darkening tips of sails and folding closed the wings of open clouds.

Maybe writing is the medium that permits movement after, against, along, amid, through, across, and beyond. Words as protection, as projection - and though my powers are not perfect, this is what I have decided to do with my life just now: I will begin as poet, then slowly become the poem.

Sunday, October 18, 2015

Summer's Last Words

Perhaps summer’s last words are still tender on my eardrum. Today her emptiness has put on weight as a new season descends on either side of me, streaked with gold – fiery leaves laden with farewells that speak my name between tall trees and vineyard rows, whispered with a brilliant hissing.

Maybe as I watch the tired bird of her body leaving the land, licking roses of their petals and seeding spring crops of thistle, there is a restlessness to her reddish glow, as if she is late to hear her own slow, sweet song vanishing behind the lit woods. I cut the last leaf of fragrant basil and she is gone. I do not know who has closed the window.

Saturday, October 3, 2015

This is Time (guest post by Eihei Dogen)

Perhaps arriving is overwhelmed by arriving, but not by not-arriving. Not arriving is overwhelmed by not-arriving, but not by arriving. Words overwhelm words and see words. Mind overwhelms mind and sees mind.

Maybe overwhelming overwhelms overwhelming and sees overwhelming. Overwhelming is nothing but overwhelming. As overwhelming is caused by you, there is no overwhelming that is separate from you. Thus you go out and meet someone. Someone meets someone. You meet yourself. Going out means going out. This is time.