poets do neither report nor
walk around enrapt in transport but
’tis when in writing their worlds are wrought
it was not
a rapturous contemplation
with the elm by the cemetery near her home
it was not a conversation
eyes held by branch and lean
it was just a glance awhile
and turn it was round-cheek smile and on to something else
but later
lingered through dark gap of tooth –
colossal now –
it was in
th
ev
er
yw
ri
ti
ng
that the tree rooted in the ground below
to find the fibrous voices
————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–
being wormhole: preee- / senting // en- / senting
eyes wormhole: session
smile wormhole: “don’t move / just die / over and over … / be true to / yourself / and don’t move” / – Suzuki Roshi
Sylvia Plath wormhole: Sylvia
voices wormhole: 0.42
writing wormhole: ‘I wanted to write a poem’
Really enjoyed this, esp the cascade at the end
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th
an
ky
ou
fo
rt
he
co
mp
any
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The cascade bumped me back and forth knocked me on the rocks and scrapped my elbow.
The roots though, we went down together like moles. Now I live there too.
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have you seen Sylvia down there at all …?
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Intuition flows on love. I see what I”m looking for. Her, I don’t find her in soft soil, she is in tear splashed ink sweated, and breathed into the bloodstream.
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roots? soil? ink? blood? … I think we’ve struck a motherlode here
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It’s all down here
We mine it, pump it, live it
It grows up yellow flowers, and red things to eat
Where no hell ever is deep
It’s al in here
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… and it never runs out!
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Never! Always satisfying and delicious, sometimes stirred.
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sometimes lava if you go too deep
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What a story that would be!
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more like: aaaggghhhhh!!!
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Hey,
Read this poem of yours and remember….that feeling…even if you don’t feel like writing again today. You will tomorrow or soon.
I’m just glad I don’t have to miss you when I don’t find you in my reader.
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ah yes, well-linked
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