Enfolding
for Sarah Johnston - happy birthday
There were ideal forms once,
seen in a past life.
Brought forth by strokes,
short graphite lines adding up,
forming the ideal that once was -
my hands tire.
And these varied flavors,
sour and sweet and fresh,
that last one perhaps
above all. Again I find
that key element, no
collapse into sameness,
but even the tongue
needs parsley.
We think beauty arises
from the earth's green,
or the mist's gray.
But I know what
would sustain
my vision,
my feeling,
and it would not be me,
or it.
- Learning (a poem)
- Vision (a poem)
- Still Life (a poem)
- Investment (a poem)
- Poem: “I am away from my computer”
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I just converted to the new blogger too! What a coincidence?
SORRY i MISSED YOUR CALL THE OTHER NIGHT. I AM A BUSY BEE RIGHT NOW! KEEP GETTING PULLED IN A MILLION DIRECTIONS. I THINK THAT I AM PAST THAT NOW THOUGH, I THINK? I HOPE THAT THE SEMESTER IS ENDING WELL! I KNOW IT MUST FEEL WEIRD TO BE GETTING READY TO GO, ESPECIALLY WHEN IT IS A FEW WEEKS AWAY.
I rest my head on native shore
To Dream sweetly of love once more.
Wearily have I made this journey
Hoping I too may be worthy.
That I may sip my reward
From the cup of my Lord.
“There were ideal forms once,
seen in a past life.
Brought forth by strokes,
short graphite lines adding up,
forming the ideal that once was -
my hands tire.”
my hands tire, yes, that speaks to me. don’t quite know how. always bringing forth forms, maybe that’s tiring?
association: in light of our recent conversation on my blog, of course i am paying particular attention to the “form” and “sensation” aspects of this poem.
knowing about form, knowing through/about sensation — that makes me think of german philosopher max scheler: “knowledge is the participation in the thusness of an entity, and a precondition for this participation is transcendence, which can be called love or devotion. (a quicky translation from my german philosophical dictionary)”.
when, instead of bringing forth forms or constantly subjecting myself to sensations, i simply participate in a spirit of love and devotion — will my hands still tire?