Thursday, January 21, 2016

In Those Relationships

Image of the Day:  A bald eagle being attacked by some other large bird outside our office windows. 

One of my co-workers spotted the eagle today while we were having lunch.  This is the third bald eagle I've seen in like two months!  One was right in my small town!  Before this, it had been years.  I wonder what is happening to their environment to make them so visible? 

So I haven't been exactly current on this blog.  I've been distracted from the poetry world by other parts of my world.  But this happens and I'm okay with it--mainly because I know we need these other parts of our world to take over and to possibly deepen our experiences. At least this is what I'm telling myself. We can't always focus on just one part of our lives--the poetry will happen soon.  I know this because I'm going to be taking an on-line class in February.    I have purchased poetry books in anticipation of delving back into that world:  Kingdom Animalia by Aracelis Girmay and ABCs of Women's Work by Kathleen Kirk. But right now I'm just re-reading the Harry Potter series because that's all my mind can handle right now.  I miss writing, which is a good thing.  We'll see what happens to my writing when I return to it. 

But I do have a poem here, that you can read.  Disclaimer:  I don't have a therapist but I am fascinated by the intimacy that must occur in those relationships. I had at one point titled this: Love Poem to My Imaginary Therapist, but that didn't quite work. 

From Ann Truitt on Brain Pickings:
The terms of the experience and the terms of the work itself are totally different. But if the work is successful — I cannot ever know whether it is or not — the experience becomes the work and, through the work, is accessible to others with its original force.
For me, this process is mysterious. It’s like not knowing where you’re going but knowing how to get there. 


Mind in Flock, Mind Apart
by K. A. Hays
       

They scatter high, the grackles. What's to know
of mind in flock? Some baffling drive to share?
I keep apart my thought. They swoop and go

as if some harried god inhaled. A show
of beauty, then—the great lung thrills with air
that scatters high the grackles. This I know:

they perch like thorns, that blackened croaking row
along a bough. We too sing what we bear,
but keep apart most thoughts—they swoop and go

like hawks, drab hunters circling, circling slow
over small things: to dive, to feed. To tear
and scatter high. The grackles (those I know)

stay close in hunger: flit down, grub low,
blue clucks, green squeals—and each self gone where?
Not kept apart. Less thought, more swoop and go—

a particle, a wave. The peppered dusk. But no,
what weird squalling—is what's here in me out there?
They scatter high, the grackles, what I know.
They keep a part of thought. I swoop—they go.
 
 
 

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