Knowing Both
1/4/06 02:48![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eredienWell, here goes nothing. I wish my brain would shut up and let me sleep.
But I repotted the daffodils today, and my roommate made a lovely soup-and-salad dinner of organic veggies. And found a new magazine in this year's Writer's Market that purports to publish genre-based short poetic forms such as the haiku and tanka. Not that I have anything written for them, but most of my impromptu formal poetry comes out in haiku. If anyone is interested I can look up the name, as I copied the page and contact info for the editor.
Wish I could find the series of haiku-stanzas I did a while back.
[Edit: Ah. I did archive it after all. I don't remember if I let them publish it in the college paper or not.]
--
If you wanted to
you could trace me like a dog
burrow down through type
I would bury self
with words, hide under mounds of
safe dark pseudonym,
thinking: you cannot
catch me, metamorphosing:
a mole of name-change.
You, finally, back
me into darkest corner:
ask, why hide yourself?
I stand silent there
cornered by the dog of truth:
and cannot answer:
to my own satisfaction.
--
Thinking, "I might want to design typefaces when I grow up...oh, wait."
--
Ruddy spoonbill stands ridiculous, as if he'd tip; or, more than tip, crash all in one piece, felled like a tree into his own shadow and long ripple. But he defies expectations--we will not mention that he defies gravity as well: a habit ingrained in him by birth, not through force of will and thought, is hardly defiant--and stands upright, or spreads his wings and in a softness of wind and feathers flies. The birder on the shore wonders how the spoonbill stands, but the spoonbill himself stands. There is a grace in standing unbalanced, on one leg, in muddy ground, which comes round back to balance again.
So here it is tonight in my soul and in my gut; I feel the deep, deep fear but it cannot take me. Love, against all expectation and for hope, balances in me.
But I repotted the daffodils today, and my roommate made a lovely soup-and-salad dinner of organic veggies. And found a new magazine in this year's Writer's Market that purports to publish genre-based short poetic forms such as the haiku and tanka. Not that I have anything written for them, but most of my impromptu formal poetry comes out in haiku. If anyone is interested I can look up the name, as I copied the page and contact info for the editor.
Wish I could find the series of haiku-stanzas I did a while back.
[Edit: Ah. I did archive it after all. I don't remember if I let them publish it in the college paper or not.]
--
If you wanted to
you could trace me like a dog
burrow down through type
I would bury self
with words, hide under mounds of
safe dark pseudonym,
thinking: you cannot
catch me, metamorphosing:
a mole of name-change.
You, finally, back
me into darkest corner:
ask, why hide yourself?
I stand silent there
cornered by the dog of truth:
and cannot answer:
to my own satisfaction.
--
Thinking, "I might want to design typefaces when I grow up...oh, wait."
--
Ruddy spoonbill stands ridiculous, as if he'd tip; or, more than tip, crash all in one piece, felled like a tree into his own shadow and long ripple. But he defies expectations--we will not mention that he defies gravity as well: a habit ingrained in him by birth, not through force of will and thought, is hardly defiant--and stands upright, or spreads his wings and in a softness of wind and feathers flies. The birder on the shore wonders how the spoonbill stands, but the spoonbill himself stands. There is a grace in standing unbalanced, on one leg, in muddy ground, which comes round back to balance again.
So here it is tonight in my soul and in my gut; I feel the deep, deep fear but it cannot take me. Love, against all expectation and for hope, balances in me.