under its own weight, laden by the tonnage of all it has passed over through the night. Is it always this way, you might ask. Yes, always. The night is long and all that can happen does. We survive; we don’t. If we do, then a poem becomes possible at the end of it. You rise to stand in a glory of your own nakedness and gaze out across the undimming field as the great thing slowly slips behind eucalyptus, casts the figure of a lone raptor high in silent obsidian as sky fails to hold it up and if you presssilent enough you may hear the faint scratching of dawn skittering in the bush, a stirring industry convening in the bramble and, amid this small miracling, your breathing belies you and you are something new becoming, like all of it, untested and graceless, congealing before a breaking of fire and it is good, this; very good.
Every flower feeds a sun Every spidered blossom spun Every petal comes undone As in the end lies what begun. ~Aucassin Verdè
They come and come some more as if the season were a volcano erupting along the horizon pitting everything with a scattershot beauty that leaves no eye unwounded. This one might be handed to a brown-eyed girl, the future streaming in her wild windborne hair while that one might be set in a vase on a nightstand beside the bed of a dying father.
We might go on this way, naming and arranging, but what’s the use? Is it better to leave the young boy’s hand empty, his heart unfettered by the innocent perils of photosynthesis, or place him before the turning shoulder of a girl that will know the cut fruit of a thousand fields before the fragrant pass of her time?
So the petalcock casts it starry net and for a moment blinds the gazer against all that remains to be seen. We go on this way over and over until the dream ceases to release us and we press the ghost up through the dissipation of common rain to fall into the stigma of a thousand year pistil that leads back to every flower.
All nature helps to swell the song and chant the same refrain; July and June have slipped away and August’s here again. ~Helen Maria Winslow (1851–1938)
August Here Again
and an early fog rolls it over like an underslept log. I listen for the usual meadow murmur: this sounding that; that calling out this. Nothing happening that has not happened in fifty-eight previous Augusts.
I might paint today, or strum strings to break it up. If I walk out now, I can stand unseen in the middle of that meadow and let it all swathe me in nowness for that is the only different thing about this August.
It arrives to arrive, promising nothing, expecting less than that. You may meet a woman who excites your body, but leaves you lacking in the seat of your soul. You might think this would be enough, but you know the truth of it, that a seabound river has far wiser plans.
Now the meadow is lifting off, crust and earth tearing away from the underground scattering gophers, quail. I watch it hover, bleed roots and worms, as if this happens every day. Slowly it disappears into gray and I am left to fill the hollow mercy of this hole.
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.