I love the dark hours of my being.
My mind deepens into them.
There I can find, as in old letters,
the days of my life, already lived,
and held like a legend, and understood.
Then the knowing comes: I can open
to another life that's wide and timeless.
So I am sometimes like a tree
rustling over a gravesite
and making real the dream
of the one its living roots
a dream once lost
among sorrow and songs.
The first stanza is the one that resonated. The end falls flat for me but whatever, I still love the punch of the piece.
Anyway, I stayed up readying Rilke and another poem shot out at me and will find itself in a key part of my novel, or more appropriately described, it is the epitaph of an emotion, whether it appears in the pages or not. It is an old emotion, an old story, retold. Interesting how in my recent study of mythology I'm seeing how many stories are the same, just re-imagined and reshaped. I'm taking from these stories: selecting fruit from one, a rib from another, forming from dust, breathing life into.
Write, delete. Write, delete. I write so much more in my drafts of these blog posts than I allow myself to admit or publish.
Things are moving along. I want to shout: Look at me! I'm healthy! I am. I have a busy week ahead of me. My days have become so busy. Late last night I found out I have friends coming to town later this week and I offered thme my guest room. I'm looking forward to their smiling faces. Teaching tomorrow night, I am looking forward to the kids, I love them. My life is lovely.
Also, one of the funniest, BEST compliments ever this weekend. You smile like a jaguar.