Drown your book, burn the poems - if bury the essay is next… *goes to save some things* 😉
“when the poems come, they come without warning, they come in by storm, they travel in packs, they move in formation like a murmuration of starlings, filling the sky, reshaping the light” ♥️♥️♥️ gorgeous
What we are disoriented by so long ago happens without conscious decision now.
She nests. You perch.
I love the image this creates in my mind. I see you like the Great Blue Heron. Self determination, self reliance, seen as a messenger from Athena carrying wisdom of the gods. If you ever see them in a group, it’s called a Siege. They generally live alone except for nesting/ mating season. And while they are usually silent, they are very noisy and wild if someone disturbs their home.
Thank you for giving me the opportunity to mentally kick your ex in the shins. That was cathartic. I suppose burning poetry would be another road to such release but like you, my initial reaction to that idea is unreceptive.
As the master of the road you follow, you are allowed to wander off onto side roads as often as you wish. I look forward to the next installment.
I’ve told you this before, but I’ll say it again. I’m in between. I for sure do some perching. But I also do a bit of nesting. But then there’s my balance problem. 🤣
It also occurs to me how ridiculous it was that, on first setting out on the road in the van, I did very little by way of reaching out for advice from those who’d done it before and could have for sure used a bit of steering. Aw well.
Love making fires. And love love your meditations on both fire and the risk of unquestioned perception. Well and anything you want to meditate on really. I’ve read the same works of Jack London more than once myself. And I distinctly remember the first time I read “To Build a Fire”—my shock anyway. I immediately read it again. I was fairly young.
Buddhists burn their po
because everything must go,
and that's the only thing we know
fo sho.
🤣
“And what, exactly, do you do?” *fumes*
“I fed it poems, one by one.” *faints, briefly*
Drown your book, burn the poems - if bury the essay is next… *goes to save some things* 😉
“when the poems come, they come without warning, they come in by storm, they travel in packs, they move in formation like a murmuration of starlings, filling the sky, reshaping the light” ♥️♥️♥️ gorgeous
Beautiful. The poem was fully you. He didn't, wasn't, never gon a get it. I see that kitchen. I picture that scene. Well done.
Every moment changes us.
What we are disoriented by so long ago happens without conscious decision now.
She nests. You perch.
I love the image this creates in my mind. I see you like the Great Blue Heron. Self determination, self reliance, seen as a messenger from Athena carrying wisdom of the gods. If you ever see them in a group, it’s called a Siege. They generally live alone except for nesting/ mating season. And while they are usually silent, they are very noisy and wild if someone disturbs their home.
Thank you for giving me the opportunity to mentally kick your ex in the shins. That was cathartic. I suppose burning poetry would be another road to such release but like you, my initial reaction to that idea is unreceptive.
As the master of the road you follow, you are allowed to wander off onto side roads as often as you wish. I look forward to the next installment.
I’ve told you this before, but I’ll say it again. I’m in between. I for sure do some perching. But I also do a bit of nesting. But then there’s my balance problem. 🤣
It also occurs to me how ridiculous it was that, on first setting out on the road in the van, I did very little by way of reaching out for advice from those who’d done it before and could have for sure used a bit of steering. Aw well.
Love making fires. And love love your meditations on both fire and the risk of unquestioned perception. Well and anything you want to meditate on really. I’ve read the same works of Jack London more than once myself. And I distinctly remember the first time I read “To Build a Fire”—my shock anyway. I immediately read it again. I was fairly young.
oh gosh, so healing. like a balm to a severe burn. needed here.
I forwarded this passage to my youngest offspring with the following note.
“Here’s a novel idea, write that letter to your Mother, then burn it.”
Is it best to burn one’s poems or to keep them to one’s self like a deeply dark secret?
I look forward to part 3.
Your smoky thoughts and wisdom created from the burning of your poems.