That I Am A Small Child Again

Inside – a quiet space one might approach idles in a dark later forgotten.

But what does it mean, this first acquaintance with its primitive elusiveness, combined with the telling commentary of a muffled breeze drifting down the stairs.

Outside – the sun at its zenith.

Look, look, the heart cannot shake this flurry of sentimentality that stirs at its centre – a lamenting rhythm of homesickness and its endearing elegy of recollection laced so well with memories kept hidden until – childhood voices return. 

Meanwhile, something within briefly glows.

It Threw Me Into A Slight Illusion

Gathered here amongst the rocks in this abandoned excerpt of time…

. . . . .

On this Tuesday afternoon there is more-or less-to it than the unhurried come and go of a solid sleepwalking shadow. Nearly but not quite it nonchalantly mingles with the world by chance. Quietly, like nothing very special, it passes like the wink of each second from an unheard clock some distant village away. 

. . . . .

Come tomorrow, when you draw it back, the day is sure to return far beyond your mind’s ungainly sketch of it – and the shadows too, half-hidden in self-regard. Imagine if you will, yourself amongst them, in summertime – simply passing through.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGCsyshUU-A

And Thereafter I Was Left With A Stillness

I stood for a moment listening to the devout outpouring of infinite things as, resolutely, image by image they accumulated. Every step directed toward some god-like mystery endowed to my soul and its beggar heart. Silence, silence, as I listen to the art of the place, allowing memory to bloom somewhere near an open window. With reverence, a cast of yellow spills out into the light, caught at some temporary angle. Its blessed repose suggestive of a rich poetic colloquy.

Restless And On The Move

Each new landscape endowed with a quiet unworried satisfaction, fulfilling a vision amid an endless unpublicized space, carrying out its mission as poetry’s profile is raised. Nature, putting it out there amongst a prodigious assemblage of observers. Her intricate layerings queued as memories, intimately entering the eye of who I am this vast distance away from where I’ve come. From mountain summit to shore’s edge, rational portions of her scenery’s intrigue carrying out an easy-going expression that compels one to look always for the sublimated traces of its song. It is for it – because of it I persist, following its time-honoured pulse. Listen how the soul of it miraculously labours at this moment, going on and on as though it might persist forever. Somewhere long after sleep it is born again, fleetingly progressing in this spare but significant portion of time, palpitating powerfully and unperturbed.

The Artist Attempts To Be Removed

Travel is its own book, its own reward. Our experiences are internalized, woven within memory. The spoils of our journey may include a cherished image amid a spread of Kodaks - our amateur travelogue. But absent is the spiritual wash, a searing light, a breathtaking harshness, a certain sense of things that we are powerless to capture or to express.

– Patti Smith 
(an excerpt from 
her preface to monument)