Poetry has saved my life at least six times – and I do not mean metaphorically – I mean literally. How beautiful and unlikely a truth is that? And so I have a debt to pay to the art that has kept me alive. That is almost more beautiful than I can express.
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Beauty is found in synchronicity, in meaningful coincidences, in the similarity of patterns in feathers, snow flakes, ice crystals, whenever veined leaves and butterflies’ wings echo the lines inside our palm.
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That moment of feeling or receiving compassion is what is most poignant and beautiful to me — the recognition of the other and the ephemerality of all things.
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I raised my hand and asked, feeling I was probably revealing myself as a poetry-bumpkin, What about beauty? Everybody looked a little embarrassed. Didn’t I know the days of skylarks and cloudy climes were past?
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A curtain of rain, days of sun and no rain, faces of children demanding change, egret plumes, bobcat’s tail, my daughter’s first laugh…
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Depth of thought is the route to feeling. The more deeply we think about our world, the stronger we feel about it. We experience the world’s pain. We experience the artist’s pain, the scientist’s pain, the child or parent’s pain. And this pain, which resides in our hearts and souls and even our bodies, gives rise to joy.
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This fabric is beautiful—the way it weaves about, evolves, pervades all without a stitch, the way it disappears, dissipates, echoes, reduplicates, the way it sprinkles motifs, and speaks in the shapes and patterns of glossolalia.
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Any photo taken may produce at least one version of itself that is worth retaining; often it contains more than one version by cropping the original.
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So many of my ideas for poems appear when I am in nature. Even a walk in the neighborhood will do – pink blossomed trees beside a porch where two chairs sit, leaning towards each other, waiting for someone to fill them.
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