After time away from various creative veins (I’ve written about the hiatus), I have begun to think in lines of poetry again.
I wrote a poem in the shower on one recent night, a poem with a particular still life photograph of river rocks stacked in my mind, a poem I did not move to paper but let wash through me and down the drain, a temporary mandala of spirit and poetics.
I envision pairing such short stacks of rocks, simple cairns constructed, photographed, destructed and returned to the mountain river near my home, with short stacks of poetry. Like this:
It’s in the textures of gray,
the feelable stuff, life lived
in the real, where the deep
clarity of black and white
gets lost. Bring water.
The land is rugged
and there is no map
detailing the braille
of this terrain.