"...to enclose the present moment; to make it stay; to fill it fuller and fuller, with the past, the present and the future, until it shone, whole, bright, deep with understanding."

Virgina Woolf, The Years


A wild solitude calls out to me

It’s in the perilous boughs of the tree   
out of blue sky    the wind   
sings loudest surrounding me.

And solitude,   a wild solitude
’s reveald,   fearfully,   high     I’d climb   
into the shaking uncertainties,

part out of longing,   part     daring my self,
part to see that
widening of the world,   part

to find my own, my secret
hiding sense and place, where from afar   
all voices and scenes come back

—the barking of a dog,   autumnal burnings,
far calls,   close calls—   the boy I was
calls out to me
here the man where I am   “Look!

I’ve been where you

most feared to be."

Robert Duncan's Childhood's Retreat casi inmaculado, with just one very minor, yet not insgnificant, change. 


All birthed and happy

I walk along these hillsides
in the summer 'neath the sunshine
I'm feathered by the moonlight
falling down on me

Words: A murder of one by Counting Crows


If you ignore the world and find it in you to swirl the word (or, Same bones, different skeletons; or, Pick your poisson)

Eros scrabbles to rose and rage
to rose and rage

to rage
to smite homesick hours or violet types
flowers that say "love it" if you listen

                                                                       Me, I do 

and don’t feel it matters that evil thrives
in live, that we tinker and smash 

everything down to bits and then
try to patch a path back home, it’s our lotto 

in life, to have no clue
what a natural disaster is
when that disaster is us. 

                     Besides, what can I say about

language other than it’s an anal egg 
in need of one glorious u. Words
or sword — pick your poisson. Every time 
I try to peak into speaking, the bag
of gab to learn what our noodles
are really up to, I get flummoxed
that the tools I use
are the stool I stand on

to see a way in or out. I can’t even tell 
if I’m more trapped or rapt,
if meaning’s mean or play’s
a dumb waiter riding numbly

up and down. But have you noticed 
read becomes dear
if you ignore the world
as you find it and find it in you

to swirl the word, in the way 
solve and loves are the same 
bones, different skeletons. 

(Personal selection of Bob Hicok's The pregnancy of words)