“There it is; the light across the water. Your story. Mine. His. It has to be seen to be believed. And it has to be heard. In the endless babble of narrative, in spite of the daily noise, the story waits to be heard.
Some people say that the best stories have no words. It is true that words drop away, and that the important things are often left unsaid. The important things are learned in faces, in gestures, not in our locked tongues. The true things are too big or too small, or in any case always the wrong size to fit in the template called language.”
– Jeanette Winterson
knowing
Morning Trip (72)
- “The Waking
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light take the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady, I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.”
–Theodore Roethke
I Can See Your Tracks
“Oh I can see your tracks
But I won’t follow them
I’ll just hope for rain
Or some kind of crazy wind
To erase them
And chase them into oblivion
Oh I can smell the smoke
From your fire, babe
But I’ll leave you alone
And sleep in this lonely cave
And pray for
A storm to scrub this dirt away
Oh I can hear the snakes
Creeping cross the scene
I’m quaking in my boots
But you won’t hear me scream
You’re half way
Down to New Orleans
You’re half way
Down to New Orleans”
–source
Morning Trip (66)
“Love is just a word until someone comes along and gives it meaning.”
–unknown
Morning Trip (55)
I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see.
~John Burroughs
One Shoot Sunday and Peek:Purple Profundity: Poetry by Elisabeth Connelley
Here is entry number Two! There is a lot that can be done with this week’s image!
Good Morning! It’s One Shoot Sunday again! The following is quoted to attribute the photographer and the site that supports and encourages The Poetry Challenge of One Shoot Sunday.
“Hello one and all – welcome to the latest edition of One Shoot Sunday. Normally, you would hear me (Chris Galford) wax philosophic here or provide you with an introduction to our latest photographic find. Today, however, we’re simply going to be providing you with a prompt from an old friend of One Stop’s.
You may remember Roger Allen Baut @ChasingTao from the early days of OneShoot (Roger’s One Shoot Interview). If not, you should definitely take a look now. A talented and friendly photographer, he makes his return to One Stop today with something a little more abstract. Look beneath the surface. What speaks to you here? Let your imagination go for this one.”
Accept Today’s Poetry Challenge!
Peek–Purple Profundity:Poetry by Elisabeth Connelley
snow
snow
and more snow
falling gently
covering
crossing and uncrossing
a toe
stuck up a man’s nose
stolen kisses
objections of wind
shrieking at the seams
of windows
frosted over with steam
reflected
in the mirror over the sink
seen
by eye
at the center of you
peeking
–by Elisabeth Connelley, Purple Profundity
When I am here–Purple Profundity: Poetry by Elisabeth Connelley
When I am here
what part of me do you love
do you fantasize about
without knowing
me
understanding you
smiling at
who
you can paint
yourself
when you feel
near
me
myself
who are you
do you ask
do you dream
illusions and puffy things
you wake up
you think me gone
eye
was never here
missing the view
of the image
in the mirror
smoke
wisps of air
curling away
–by elisabeth connelley
Morning Trip (28)
“The major and almost the only theme of all my work is the struggle of man with ‘God’: the unyielding, inextinguishable struggle of the naked worm called ‘man’ against the terrifying power and darkness of the forces within him and around him. The stubbornness of the struggle, the tenacity of the little spark in its fight to penetrate the age-old, boundless night and conquer it.”
“Some crackpots search for God, thinking perhaps he lurks somewhere amid the branches of the flesh and mind; some squander precious life, chasing the empty air; some, still more pigeon-brained, think they’ve already found him and work on his compassion with their begging whines till their minds break from too much joy or too much pain. But others, great brain-archers, know the secret well: by God is meant to hunt God through the empty air!”
– Nikos Kazantzakis
Elisa's Spot 