Tuesday, November 29, 2011
To Reply
In the wisp of a word
in a tone
whose outlines are grey
blurred
shuffling the calm between us
it will be noticed
if ever
at a time
when it is too late to reply.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Landscape in Drenthe
The brown hues stand in contrast to the other Van Goghs in the room. The lone figure on horseback moves across a sere earth, the sodden ruts. Above, the sky emits a light -preternaturally radiant- not reaching the bowed human figure.
Landscape in Drenthe, 1883
(on exhibit at the MAM this season)
Landscape in Drenthe, 1883
(on exhibit at the MAM this season)
Saturday, November 26, 2011
The Moments
I drink matcha from an earthen bowl. Slowly, a familiar warmth suffuses me. Clarity emerges. The senses enliven. I call a friend. Later, more tea; this time, an oolong I share with E.
The day ripens, and the moments connect.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Her Words
It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
-Virginia Woolf from Jacob's Room
I am still reeling from her words. They speak of a moment in which sympathies are shared and to acknowledge it with words would be superfluous.
Like a plant arching its stems of leaves towards the sun, the two minds incline trophically -mind printing upon mind. The moment passes, leaving an indelible echo.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
The Funeral
In an unexpected way that never fails to jar
it comes through with an immediacy:
a photo of faces still known to me
cousins now grown with their children
on a grainy surface of facebook pixels
a head caught averted in a procession of black
my father making the trip over in time
placing a bough for his brother.
In memory of Bac Hung
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
November Leaves
The leaves creak in gentle spasms
remaining pendant
while shot through
by the haze of an early afternoon.
Somewhere in these movements
is the unarticulated.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Before Sunrise
In the shadows of the real
and of the unimagined
I walk beneath weeping willows
on the unswept stretch of fallen leaves
the crash of the lake coming closer
my steps retracing what was not seen
moving on through the shadows
of dewdrops, the crackle of frost
the suffused light of a new day.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
November
Is it the same
by the window
beside the repose of fur
the birch whitened in its season
of lost leaves, of our reflected years
the wind coming through the night
sweeping away the leaves
leaving behind the first frost
we returning to our breath.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Green Chaos
John Fowles, in his essayistic gem, The Tree, touches on the unconscious as a wellspring of creativity. He uses the woods as a metaphor, calling it a green chaos.
We venture into the green chaos with trepidation and exhilaration, not quite sure of what we will find there.
Likewise, each night we dream, plunged into our individual unconscious -our chaos- to be imbued with images that linger with us well into our waking hours. These images provoke associations, and we follow them on a journey where the destination is only revealed upon our reaching it.
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