from this week in 2012 (I was 67)
not stolen from Roethke
I know it’s an owl
he’s making it darker
You didn’t know
he could do it
I hear it hoot black
his yellow eyes pierce far
Any mouse that moves
moves silent wings to it.
Daily poetry and journal entries from the past 50 years, each from this same date.
I don’t write in a journal everyday, but I have accumulated many entries over the past 50+ years beginning in 1966. Some items evolved into longer works. Among the leftovers little pieces survived. I thought a collection of these with a piece culled from the same date in a past year would make an interesting yearbook. The consistencies and inconsistencies of mind, skipping back and forth across time, provide varied perspectives. It is difficult to remember the context of the past we’ve lived; we also make suppositions about times that predate ourselves.
The few alterations from original drafts were to improve clarity. The worst of my work is not included. There remains enough mediocrity and immaturity to make me feel humble and you feel smart. There are also moments of accidental insight and incidental humor.
Author Stephen Crane referred to his little pieces as pills…apparently they were small and somewhat hard to swallow, but good for you.
Comments Welcome!
from this week in 2012 (I was 67)
not stolen from Roethke
I know it’s an owl
he’s making it darker
You didn’t know
he could do it
I hear it hoot black
his yellow eyes pierce far
Any mouse that moves
moves silent wings to it.
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