:: :: :: :: terrible dragon: slaying the world one poem at a time :: :: :: ::
Monday, August 29, 2011
Fleeting lips of unfathomable futility
27 Lines On The Beach
No trace, no trail, no imprint left by tracker or explorer who raced toward keepless promises of legend, no marker visible save the sun’s bright flag claiming this alone as her province, this littoral of bare flesh midriffed before the sea, ebbless salt glistening in thin layers blonding sparse strands of tiny hairs that raise their villous yearn against a surge that surrenders in rapt allegiance to fall at her naked feet from two worlds away.
This is you standing before the threshold of our emergence, where every footed thing walked out from before we thought to remember doing so. This is your home as it is mine, as it is home to every dreamer who dared in our unfolding history. As we left sisters behind to stroll the deep currents that wash over us in moments that siren the heart to soothe their moon-torn stormcrests, so we left brothers to buoy the bottom of a crabless kingdom.
And so we stand, together in this brief epoch, a moment of delirious prospect made possible by luminous shapings of forces we cannot enumerate by calculation or position by starmap for to attempt such would be to place a kiss of chance upon fleeting lips of unfathomable futility. Thus, before you, a primeval beauty awaits the smooth fin of your foot, a tidal sky summons you to come forth and breathe again what once flooded gills to build the first sigh.
Being mostly nothing, I might attest to my time as such. There were lofty shadows, the lacework afternoon moving in curtains before an open window above me, a feel of mother that has never left me in my need for shelter and comfort found perfectly in a woman.
There were footsteps and misadventures in locomotion, the fevered spinning set to bones at play, voices sealing skies forever in a memory of ears and eyes, weathers without name, days without purpose beyond getting to the next and the thousands that follow that.
Look at me now, a year from sixty and already marked by weariness of worlds beyond this one, scourged and sainted in pressings of flesh well-forgotten and missed, so dearly missed. Mostly nothing allows for this space, to come at last to some embrace of mostly what I am not.
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.