Sunday, January 3, 2010
A Poem: On the Perpetual Motion of the Mind
In writing a form, lush in its recognized transience,
We try to sense the clarity forever falling past us
On a screen of life, love, and wanting. The act itself defies,
Is at once a holding and a release, born of all that is humanity,
Spinning itself out into the dust of the imagined Universe.
We were there once, now we were there again, we will be there,
But it slips into non-existence, a specter that haunts if we pause
To recognize the process of creation. We cup our lost stars briefly
And spill them out on tables, like a rolling of dice.
This is the reality where one of the dice rocks briefly
before it dips into its resting place:
Which is where the painter's hand forgets its motion
And becomes the painting and something previously unimagined is realized.
Which is where bodies rock together, for a moment outside of the realm
Of possibilities, disappearing the mind in shared sensation.
Which is the strangers that are us pausing outside a shop window,
Christmas lights sparkling and reflected back at every possible angle,
But they look past the reflection at emptiness. On either side there is form.
Which is that future where we have been and no longer are.
Which is that moment of dawn when the sky is still yellow around the edges
And the trees are thick black strokes propped on their elbows, blinking
In amazement at the beginning of another decade
in the middle of the clamor bringing in a New Year as it moved us
Into the past, circling the globe, which circles the sun, which circles
Something, like the mind circles, but never returns to quite the same place.
This is letting go of form, a place where words run out of any power
They ever had to describe, and the mind finally rests in the arms of what,
For lack of better words, is everything home has ever meant.