Before any other words are tapped onto screen, I must tell you that here, where you write
“There, where there is no form, the promise of something that before was not there.
Everywhere we turn, a promise a yearning a gap we cannot close.
Every turn an act of poetry.
Every act of poetry trans/versing the isness of is.
Which can mean nothing unless you read these words from the place in you from which a poem comes to be. Leaving,”
With this you fill a gap, you bridge the ‘isness’ of place with self by sending us this audio with consciousness and feeling - I thank you deeply… for me that link/gap was missing. Now it is whole and closed.
I realise this was not your intended meaning, (here again I lean into your words…) but a link that I felt and will hold for each furthering letter.
There is no forgiveness necessary in your belief Renée, a poem will ‘be’ and just that, it is a creation of perhaps one or a trillion visions/thoughts/feelings it does not need to be translated or even fully understood it is simply our creation or recreation of a moment. It belongs to that moment only…
“The beginning is ever-beginning. Out of a great Silence, a yearning, ever mute, signaling the endless unfolding of being.
Yes, a desire to say what we mean is what it's like to be. Thank you for that Renee, it's so accurate.That we attempt to describe the indescribable, that we keep showing up and accidentally 'trying' to find the space where the word will be birthed, all the while knowing that creation cannot be found it must be allowed.
Renee I loved this..."There, where there is no form, the promise of something that before was not there. Everywhere we turn, a promise a yearning a gap we cannot close. Every turn an act of poetry. Every act of poetry trans/versing the isness of is."
Poetry draws me in like a moth to the flame, the fish to the hook. I lose myself in it, going round and round in that "cul-de-sac" of meaning that defies holding. For it slips through my fingers, like the wind rustling the branches, yet leaves me touched without explanation.
I was recently introduced to Shuzo Takiguchi, a surrealist poet. Amazing wordsmith/poet of placing words together in unexpected ways. It literally stops my mind! Inviting me into an experience that defies definition.
This is incredible. And I SO loved listening to your voice speak the words. In part, I'm reminded about a conversation we had where we talked about words as the paints of the poet/writer. Using these to bring into form the essence of the image from our marrow. Words can be particularly slippery paints and also, maybe paradoxically, a little too concrete at times. When we want to express infinity using finite symbols we find ourselves in that place of tension. And then I also wanted to mention that I've been thinking a lot about meaning lately (as I work on next month's pack about meaning). I went back to Viktor Frankl and was reminded of his belief that the search for meaning is our core motivation and that it's not something we create, but discover in each moment. It unfolds before us and (to use Donna's wisdom) we allow it to be. And then tension pulls us to discover the meaning of the next moment. Thank you for all of this! ♥️
Renée, this was one of those posts that I save because I don’t have time at the moment to reply but want to. Now, 3 weeks later, I can... Something about this post touches me. Maybe it was the conversation about the biscuits (although my mother never made biscuits unless they were from a Pillsbury can), or the simplicity of the poetry. I know nothing about poetry or how to interpret it. “A poem should not mean / but be” sets that free. A poem just IS, and maybe that’s all that is necessary.
Ecstatic. That’s the word or rather, experience, that kept arising as I read this. Followed by grateful, fecund silence. 🙏
Dearest Renée, in reply to both letters;
Before any other words are tapped onto screen, I must tell you that here, where you write
“There, where there is no form, the promise of something that before was not there.
Everywhere we turn, a promise a yearning a gap we cannot close.
Every turn an act of poetry.
Every act of poetry trans/versing the isness of is.
Which can mean nothing unless you read these words from the place in you from which a poem comes to be. Leaving,”
With this you fill a gap, you bridge the ‘isness’ of place with self by sending us this audio with consciousness and feeling - I thank you deeply… for me that link/gap was missing. Now it is whole and closed.
I realise this was not your intended meaning, (here again I lean into your words…) but a link that I felt and will hold for each furthering letter.
There is no forgiveness necessary in your belief Renée, a poem will ‘be’ and just that, it is a creation of perhaps one or a trillion visions/thoughts/feelings it does not need to be translated or even fully understood it is simply our creation or recreation of a moment. It belongs to that moment only…
“The beginning is ever-beginning. Out of a great Silence, a yearning, ever mute, signaling the endless unfolding of being.
A poem should not mean
But be.”
But endlessly unfolding! Absolutely yes! X
Yes, a desire to say what we mean is what it's like to be. Thank you for that Renee, it's so accurate.That we attempt to describe the indescribable, that we keep showing up and accidentally 'trying' to find the space where the word will be birthed, all the while knowing that creation cannot be found it must be allowed.
Mmmm. Poetry as an act of Becoming. And Becoming the living act of Poetry.
Only in that 'ever beginning' of that 'every prose' - moment by beheld moment.
As not
"to mean, but be"
Ps. Wonderful to put a voice to the words. A graceful blessing in this electronically focused system.
Renee I loved this..."There, where there is no form, the promise of something that before was not there. Everywhere we turn, a promise a yearning a gap we cannot close. Every turn an act of poetry. Every act of poetry trans/versing the isness of is."
Poetry draws me in like a moth to the flame, the fish to the hook. I lose myself in it, going round and round in that "cul-de-sac" of meaning that defies holding. For it slips through my fingers, like the wind rustling the branches, yet leaves me touched without explanation.
I was recently introduced to Shuzo Takiguchi, a surrealist poet. Amazing wordsmith/poet of placing words together in unexpected ways. It literally stops my mind! Inviting me into an experience that defies definition.
This is incredible. And I SO loved listening to your voice speak the words. In part, I'm reminded about a conversation we had where we talked about words as the paints of the poet/writer. Using these to bring into form the essence of the image from our marrow. Words can be particularly slippery paints and also, maybe paradoxically, a little too concrete at times. When we want to express infinity using finite symbols we find ourselves in that place of tension. And then I also wanted to mention that I've been thinking a lot about meaning lately (as I work on next month's pack about meaning). I went back to Viktor Frankl and was reminded of his belief that the search for meaning is our core motivation and that it's not something we create, but discover in each moment. It unfolds before us and (to use Donna's wisdom) we allow it to be. And then tension pulls us to discover the meaning of the next moment. Thank you for all of this! ♥️
Renée, this was one of those posts that I save because I don’t have time at the moment to reply but want to. Now, 3 weeks later, I can... Something about this post touches me. Maybe it was the conversation about the biscuits (although my mother never made biscuits unless they were from a Pillsbury can), or the simplicity of the poetry. I know nothing about poetry or how to interpret it. “A poem should not mean / but be” sets that free. A poem just IS, and maybe that’s all that is necessary.