Thursday, February 18, 2010
Arrival
Sometimes, as I sit here writing in the dark,
I feel as if my hands belong to someone else working
just beyond the veil — a parallel realm in which objects
roam free of any given meaning, and the sound
of a passing train — I hear it now — is that
someone’s remembered childhood.
(first publication)
Update:
“Arrival” added to Poems, Slightly Used.
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10 comments:
some ones call this inspiration , others call mediunity .
i call freedom and peace .
Like this a lot. I have had the same thoughts, not as well expressed, myself.
Wonderful! It reminds me that I thought of emailing you this passage from Thomas McGrath's Letter to an Imaginary Friend, which I've been rereading, when I came across it a couple of days back. He's writing about a period of his life spent in Waterville, Maine and environs:
In the frozen purity of the long northern night,
Hearing the high pipes and wild drumming, continuous,
Loud, of the Syrian (or Armenian) workers . . .
Alien song that was: a wintry hieroglyph
Hung in the ear of night like a freight train whistle
Strange and familiar. Hearing that song the unfixed
World turned round and steadied....
Not his remembered childhood, but early manhood. Or is it all just an extension of childhood?
Caio, I agree.
Anthony, I’m pleased, but not really surprised, to find this common ground.
Joe, indeed, why try to separate into phases that which is all part of the same grand movement? Lovely passage!
Nothing like channeling the Universal Flow my friend...
Well said — and thanks for dropping in.
William,
I love that idea of recognizing the parallel universe of childhood memory. I believe in a Cosmos of infinite universes where it may be possible to listen in on someone else's imagination.
Joseph,
I like that passage from McGrath(how well written!): it reminds me of the style of Canada's Louis Dudek.
Is there a market anymore for that sort of skilful poetry?
Conrad, thanks. Whatever it is, it was this new fresh occurrence of the experience itself that led me (him, her, us) to write the piece.
Thanks, too, for the reference to Louis Dudek.
Market or not, I say, Let it be written.
Someone's remembered childhood, though not necessarily your own, William. I love this notion, in fact this whole piece is very beautiful. Thanks.
I’m glad you like it, Elisabeth. Thank you. I appreciate your comment.
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