Thursday, June 25, 2026

Thursday, June 25, 2026

So often it happens that after having written the first draft of a poem or a story I leave it alone. When I return to it after a few days, or a week, even a month I surprise myself. How did I come up with that idea? How did I write it? Did I write it?Then I realize that when I wrote it I was not alone. My inspiration, my muse, my spirit within – whom I have been referring to as the Authentic Self – was one with me.

Writing Mindfully

Who writes the stuff to which I sign my name?
Who whispers behind the mask?
What gushes forth during moments of quietude
then sidles back swiftly wherever it comes from?

Sliding down my arm to my fingertips,
I transcribe fiery truth.
Enraptured, I write until my wrist hurts.
I stop when the whispers leave for their hidden abode.

Where does this recluse hide, whom does it abide?
It comes and returns on its free will.
It writes the word, the line, the prose, the poem.
I only attach my name to what It scribes.

Zodiac Sign by Mary Oliver

Why should I have been surprised?
Hunters walk the forest
without a sound.
The hunter, strapped to his rifle,
the fox on his feet of silk,
the serpent on his empire of muscles—
all move in a stillness,
hungry, careful, intent.
Just as the cancer
entered the forest of my body,
without a sound.

2.
The question is,
what will it be like
after the last day?
Will I float
into the sky
or will I fray
within the earth or a river—
remembering nothing?
How desperate I would be
if I couldn’t remember
the sun rising, if I couldn’t
remember trees, rivers; if I couldn’t
even remember, beloved,
your beloved name.

3.
I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you’re in it all the same.
so why not get started immediately.
I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.
And to write music or poems about.
Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats, 
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.

4.
Late yesterday afternoon, in the heat,
all the fragile blue flowers in bloom
in the shrubs in the yard next door had
tumbled from the shrubs and lay
wrinkled and fading in the grass. But
this morning the shrubs were full of
the blue flowers again. There wasn’t
a single one on the grass. How, I
wondered, did they roll back up to
the branches, that fiercely wanting,
as we all do, just a little more of
life?

(Keats: Died Age 25, 64 sonnets/poems)