Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Literary Migration

Our destination might not be a place but our source of motivation is. It becomes the intimate pub or inn where we gather with our peers, thoughts and dreams. Where the flames rise with our breath as we imagine an image and give it expression. Here, we seek the shelter of both silence and sound. We look for what casts an irregular shadow or how a particular noise evokes other associations, familiar or strange. This place may be physical or spiritual, real or figurative. Yet at some point, it will close. The roof will leak, the walls will crack, the boards will warp and andirons will guard damp wood.  And that signals for us, it’s time to move on, look elsewhere to work our tales and songs.  As writers we continue to evolve and explore our mind’s potential. Our voice changes and our style of composing  as well. Leaving the old niche is never easy but essential to attain growth and diversity. However,  what stays behind also remains significant. It may fall to ruin but still casts a spell, a haunting legacy. Like whirling leaves, words still circling in  space, that had  been half born or spoken, are drawn down and left to become breathing embers.  Scraps of a theme we can revisit and reshape. Our past perspective still keeps the bones of its original structure and serves as witness to a place that formed us in the raw years, our first nature and identity as a poet. Something we should return to,  respect and never diminish. Memory and curious need
give us license to migrate back, to  even refurbish what had never
been properly finished or acclaimed.

The Inn Of Verse

The doors bolted
              lanterns dark.

A man
bundled with reeds
on his back
                  looks elsewhere
                   to stoke his thoughts.

A woman
with her shawl
and bag of wool
                 turns elsewhere
                 to weave her tale.

The twilight stark
as seagulls strike
the air with their shriek –

              their flint tongues

 for what has gone, the shape
                  of it splintering
                    into ruin.

And still
old wood, broken slate
cast a spell
               calling down
               the whirling leaves

circling words,
the breath of the moon.
Note -- the italicized opening to the essay is a paraphrased version of Henry Miller's
quote on travelling --  " ''One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.'' 

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