hearing the rain

So this is a rainy Thursday afternoon, after the job, after the Starbucks coffee, after time at the trough of peanut butter and cottage cheese, after about 15 minutes of what shall hereafter be referred to as “guitar practice.” My tummy is bursting, my ears are dancing with the music of splattering raindrops, and my heart-mind is wild with poetry and my practice and the awareness of being fetched over and over again. Please bear with me:

I’m quoting here from ‘Corsons Inlet’ by the poet A.R. Ammons – “I allow myself eddies of meaning: yield to a direction of significance running like a stream through the geography of my work: you can find in my sayings swerves of action like the inlet’s cutting edge: there are dunes of motion, organizations of grass, white sandy paths of rememberance in the overall wandering of mirroring mind: but Overall is beyond me; is the sum of these events I cannot draw, the ledger I cannot keep, the accounting beyond the account:”

Ammons poem is within David Hinton’s “Wilds of Poetry,” and I am enchanted and stunned and mesmerized and tantalized reading it. Not as writing more poetry, rather, being more poetry – the shiny quiet among and between all the chatter, all the to do’s, all these hoped-for hip posts. Childhood reflections – “white sandy paths of rememberance” and punk rock hollers – “the ledger I cannot keep.” Here, racing toward Thanksgiving: gifted guitar; theatrical job; the hours of just be still — mountainous form.

Maybe next week I’ll just write normal old stuff. Today I wondered where the vultures go when the rain comes pouring down.