:: :: :: :: terrible dragon: slaying the world one poem at a time :: :: :: ::
Friday, February 27, 2009
Things not given to being written
This Kind Of Certainty
Let us revisit this again: A man stands beneath a lone windmill and takes his shirt off to scrub away the friction of cicadas seasoned by the burning salt of a summer sun with water that comes up from the dark places beneath rows of tasseled gold where this moment will come to be lost among countless others that lose their commonplaceness every day, but this one, for this revisit, stands out now as she looks down on him from a second story window veiled with a breathless membrane that sways in the sill like soft kitchen manners and parlor courtesies that tenor the throat with sounds that are not words, sounds that speak other things not given to being written, mysteries pure and absolute like a lovebird in a hunting dog’s mouth, red stains on white enamel, dull and glossy so that each amplifies the other in its purpose, and she watches him glisten against Iowan textures of flowers that can take the heat, a leaking faucet hoseless beside them, her hand smoothing the side of her fair face, her lips summoning what streams beneath the corn, and there is a trembling of things present that come to be pulled into a future one cannot possibly guess at and when it comes and departs you look down an empty road for the last time knowing that what passed there will not come again though you will traverse it nevertheless, again and again, to someday arrive and settle like smoke over an evening bridge covered over by a tender cowling of country stars that see the things we do and hope all things for us until we again murmur the sounds, the familiar string of words that say it in the only way it can be said: This kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime.
We trace the afternoon along places our softened bones don’t matter, between broad avenues built for breathing, draws no bird has ever scattered from, underground dens the moon slips into when we are asleep and not looking.
Here we set footings for provinces we shall one day call memory, prepare places for scent and sense to be stored in secret until we wish to call them up in fathoms of night, savor them dearly as we press too near perimeters such wakefulness cannot trespass.
There are countries in your breasts as there are oceans in the strictures of my massifs, territories given only to the wander and trek we commence by embracing what remains unnavigable; light-hectares seeded with a tenuous silk of trailing sighs.
These are the realms we conquer in laying down arms, rendering unto vanquishers we have summoned in our midst, who release us into our driven natures where we grasp the meaning of losing this; find hope in some faltered grace to once again chance upon it.
wisdom is worth all we lose to attain it. ~aucassin verdé
i wonder if the artist ever lives his life-—he is so busy recreating it. only as i write do i realize myself. i don't know what that does to life. ~anne sexton
you must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. in my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: the stupid and the envious. the stupid will like you in five years time. the envious, never.~john wilmot, 2nd earl of rochester
art arises when the secret vision of the artist and the manifestation of nature agree to find new shapes. ~kahlil gibran
creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. art is knowing which ones to keep. ~scott adams
those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either. ~golda meir
i said to my soul, be still,
and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope
for the wrong thing.
wait without love,
for love would be love
of the wrong thing.
there is yet faith;
but the faith and the love
and the hope are all
in the waiting.
wait without thought,
for you are not ready for thought.
so the darkness shall be the light,
and the stillness the dancing.