I woke early.
The snows are falling on Aspen mountain.
I am reading Charles Wright’s poetry which I have said before that I am quite taken with his poetry. Here is one that I just read that I think speaks to the writing process.
The transformation of objects in space,
or objects in time,
To objects outside either, but tactile, still precise…
It’s always the same problem–
Nothing’s more abstract, more unreal,
than what we actually see.
The job is to make it otherwise.
Two dead crepe-myrtle bushes,
tulips petal-splayed and swan stemmed,
All blossoms gone from the blossoming trees– the new loss
Is not like the old loss,
Winter-kill, a jubilant revelation, an artificial thing
Linked and lifted by pure description into the other world.
Self-oblivion, sacred information, God’s nudge–
I think I’ll piddle around by the lemon tree, thorns
Sharp as angel’s teeth.
I’ll lie down in the dandelions, the purple and white violets.
I think I’ll keep on lying there, one eye cocked toward heaven.
April eats from my fingers,
nibble of dogwood, nip of pine.
Now is the time, Lord.
Syllables scatter across the new grass, in search of their words.
Such minor Armageddons.
Beside the waters of disremembering.
I lay me down.