no beginning or end to an image but simultaneity an interior knowing too full for speech or formation of thought only the sense of being here, now, in the presence of neither thought nor speech, but inside this expanding image swb
In these uncertain times, may we strive onward though the way seem frozen, fractured, infirm, trusting nature's radiance and reason to guide us forward however we can get there. swb 1.1.22
I love fall. Every day something new. Wind stirring leaves across the deck or whirling them in random waves from their branches. Gold, rust, scarlet, fading greens of all hues. Fallen leaves forming ever-shifting patterns on the ground. Quiet days and howling nights. Sun, rain, unpredictable temperatures. All of it morphing summer’s landscapes both interior and beyond. The hint of cold to come; the nostalgia of warmth leaving. The snap of first frost with its promises of warming fires and soups. The changing light. Sudden silence following the incessant honking of traveling vee’s of south-winging geese. The quieting of songbirds. Cold-nosed nights under cosy comforters. Turning inward to reflect, hold, contemplate.
It turns out my new pup loves fall, as well. We take long walks along beach, through forest, in open fields. Each scent an announcement of some new joy or mystery for her to solve. Each clump of grass an excuse to explore. Each canine encounter cause for celebratory play. Each basin of water an invitation to splash and leap. The sheer exuberance of it all is heart-expanding, energizing. The season renews and invigorates even as it winds down to quiet and stillness. And then there’s the experience of a single, perfect day.
A Perfect Day 9.28.21 Daybreak. Orange fluttering atop pink milkweed, six or more pairs a token of past years’ orange clouds covering fields to refuel en route south for winter. A yoga hour of stretch, rise, bend, reach, the dog beside me on the mat, her bone firm between paw and jaw. The two of us savoring the calm. Ahead, gathering and dispersing weed, broken branch; checking for ripe eggplant, tomato; plucking the last golden raspberries from their canes. Later, a dark gray ribbon snaking the horizon vowing thunder and pelting rain to follow. The dog reveling in the rise and fall of foam-edged tide; and I, in four decades of this same walk my children growing up and I, old. Shoreline receding with memories of each summer spent, each reunion and visit shared. Evening sun sliding down its softened hues. Peace rising between and around us. swb
For the fourth year – the last three, consecutive – I have enjoyed the challenge of writing 12 poems in 12 hours. I was surprisingly relaxed this time around, even to the point of considering pushing myself to do the full 24. But my new puppy had other ideas about my availability. So in addition to providing her own prompt, she has challenged me/us to be ready to tackle the longer marathon by next year. In addition to offering a wide variety of prompts (and this year, each hour’s prompt included at least two options – one verbal, the other visual – which I sometimes combined in my response), the marathon offers an immediate community of like-minded poets writing, reading, commenting on and most of all, encouraging one another on a private Facebook page during the process and in the days following. It is in the days following that the reading/feedback starts in earnest. Some connections made during this intense period of time continue over the months until the next year’s marathon. Others exist in the bubble of this single week in June. Some are utterly transient, the chance comment seen or responded to when someone is hurting, frustrated, jubilant.
No matter what, the challenge leaves participants with 12 -24 new writings to ponder, revise, scrap, repurpose. It’s all good. Raw material, yes. But more, it awakens something inside. In particular, after this pandemic year of isolation and inner-dependency, those 12 hours opened up possibility and connection. I was reminded of how much shared interest and curiosity there is in the international writing world. At some point I’ll get the statistics – how many participated from how many countries. For now, I am basking in the microcosm of lives shared on my tiny computer screen, spanning the globe, time zones, ages and every/anything else you can name. We shared favorite snacks, music selections, memes, tears, side stories, background stories, what was working and what was not, photos of our space or view or first draft … All of this, plus all the original poetry. No matter what, the challenge leaves participants with a lot more than they started with.
Huge gratitude to the annual organizers, Jacob Jans and Caitlin Jans, for their tireless devotion to furthering creativity around the world, And for their transparency in sharing their own limitations, enlisting the support of others to continue this fine tradition of poem-making and sharing.
The Westport Art Group is having an in-person gallery show in its beautiful space, marking a slow re-emergence into public life. The theme, appropriately enough, is “Renewal.” For the first time, members of the WAG Poetry Group offered copies of their work to be included in the show. They hang in the lobby where a more intimate atmosphere allows a guest to stand quietly, read, then sit and ponder the words. The gallery is of course more visually enticing, with over 40 works vying for attention.
Of my three poems gracing those walls, I share one here called “Rebirth.”
Connections grow slowly
where you cannot see
the alchemy of souls
interweaving their words
of love and despair,
of hunger and joy
rooting themselves within
one another as tangled vines
mingle stalk and leaf
the new sprung from the old
dancing step-in and let-go, sprouts
from the nodes of prior years’ blooms
splitting in new directions
even as our roots spring
from shared soil.