A recent Daily Create was called “Silk Weaving,” and it said, “Ever had the urge to weave some silk? You’re in luck. Design your own weave here.” The link (go ahead, try it!) takes you to an interactive online app that allows you, the user, to move your mouse against a dark background to create brightly colored filaments of silk.
This is the one I created, which I called, “I Sing the Body Electric” after Walt Whitman’s famous line.
Somehow the image and the action of the falling silk strands entered the back door of my imagination, tossing lines of poetry at me as I drove home from work last night.
This morning, I started working out what at first I imagined as a sonnet, and it still has some of that loose structure and rhyme and variable pentameter, but I added a couple more couplets at Peter’s suggestion.
Tonight, fireworks explode
against the dark sky raining fiery
strands of silk zenith to horizon,
then Dark Spider darts across the road
to gather up those threads of memory
now in her possession.
It is She who shuttles back and forth
and weaves the worlds together;
only now I dare to cross
her fragile swaying web of silk and feathers.
I climb shining veins of the living tree
and lift my arms, shaking like a shaman
in a trance, my faint shout of, “Me!”
heard only by my father, spirit, always human.
Beloved dead flame like shooting stars
in solar wind that ceaseless pours
these brilliant silks streaming by;
my wild branches catch them as they fly.
You can listen to me reading “Silk” by clicking on the bright orange arrow below:
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There’s something about the structured mental work of teaching that allows for a quiet daily river of creativity, but it is only after I’ve been “on vacation” for a couple weeks that I begin to feel
the wild bird of imagination beginning to flap its wings a little harder, seeking lift off.
At a certain point, I feel myself heading for the full flow of that river of air, and everything I do or see or write becomes an opportunity to create. Some soul wind comes up under my wings, and I feel like I’m going to get somewhere this time.
Chance favors the prepared photographer, and this was a very magical journey to another world.
Hence, this little two mile walk out around the ponds and back turned out to be at exactly the hour of the setting sun, which has moved its scheduled setting back a little since Solstice to coincide with my daily journey out over the Willamette River and back.
Chance favors the prepared photographer, and this was a very magical journey to another world of fire and water.
Have you explored the Other World in your neighborhood? Who lives there? What are its secrets? Tell me if you know!
And oh. School starts again on Monday.
Music is Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto (he only wrote one) played by Joshua Bell.
Year’s End, Sweet Creek
Put your pack down.
Your soul pulls toward the water.
anything could happen to you.
The Wave: A Poem by Peter Jensen
I was at a family gathering at the Oregon Coast over the weekend. Peter and I were reading and writing quietly when he suddenly said, “May I read you a poem?”
I said, “Just a second!” and turned on the closest piece of technology that would voice record, which happened to be the microphone feature of iMovie.
“Okay, I’m listening!”
I just knew it was going to be a great poem, and it was.
I added some media from our adventures that day to honor his thoughts.
I am a great admirer of the poetry of Portland poet Don Hynes. He and I both love the great Pacific Northwest, its coast and forests. In this digital story, Don narrates three poems that make up a wonderful trilogy. You can find out more about him and his poetry, including books for sale, at donhynes.com.
I received a new poem in my e-mail in-box this morning that I would like to share with you:
By Don Hynes
I found this place
before the winter snows,
green and tender
with the wet smell of life,
the ground soft and open,
speaking in the timeless way.
Resting here, the old wounds healing,
the impulse to go on
quieted beside the river,
limbs like drooping cedars,
ready to let go and touch the earth.
The pass ice is melting,
the way across the mountains
opening for spring
yet I don
This is The Journey by Mary Oliver: