Saturday, August 31, 2013

Friday, August 30, 2013

“Nazim Hikmet begins a poem
With the phrase, ‘Another thing
I didn’t know I loved.'
He writes in a tone of amazement.

He’s a Turkish poet in exile.
He’s on a train in winter,
Leaving Prague and headed
Toward an uncertain future.
The poem he’s writing is a list
Of things he suddenly knows
Are precious.

He doesn’t know
Where he’s going – old man
At the start of a long, cold ride.
The list he recites is also long.

As long as he keeps making that list,
He’s traveling toward the beloved."

From How Beautiful the Beloved, by Gregory Orr

Thursday, August 29, 2013

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Monday, August 26, 2013

Sunday, August 25, 2013

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Friday, August 23, 2013

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

“I am seduced by trains. When one moans in the
night like some
dragon gone lame, I rise and put on my
grandfather's suit. I pack a
small bag, step out onto the porch, and wait in
the darkness. I rest
my broad-brimmed hat on my knee. To a
passerby I'm a curious 
sight—a solitary man sitting in the night.
There's something
unsettling about a traveler who doesn't know
where he's headed.
You can't predict his next move. In a week you
may receive a
postcard from Haiti. Madagascar. You might
turn on your
answering machine and hear his voice amid the
tumult of a 
Bangkok avenue. All afternoon you feel the
weight of the things
you've never done. Don't think about it too
much. Everything
starts to sound like a train."

David Shumate, “Trains"

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

“As firmly cemented clam-shells
Fall apart in autumn,
So I must take to the road again,
Farewell, my friends."

Basho, Narrow Road to the Deep North

Monday, August 19, 2013

Sunday, August 11, 2013

“Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.

I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air."

“Mid-August at Sourdough Lookout", Gary Snyder