Toward the unknown (One Shoot Sunday)
*composed from a photograph of Feininger, Andreas 1906-1999
The journey slices
into our landscape:
masses of time shaped
into probabilities
a curve of doubt teetering
on the side of smoothened mounds
–a solid time our past–
veering off its mirrored likeness
the now
careening to a zipped line
the unseen our eternity.
Our heartbeats stall
among fissures of rock
the chasm in our feelings.
Scarred we cease at thought
–the beat pulses unfeeling.
Our fears swarm as
sounds in our being:
a rhythmic splicing
a phantom hand cutting
in swaths its mode a sharp embrace.
We drive on into the now
to the unknown cruising
the air a fragile silk–
if we could but leap
this landscape among clouds
would be but maps frayed
in the edges as maps to nowhere:
our unknown
the only now we know
is infinity in our journey.
I posted this poem for One Shoot Sunday at the One Stop Poetry blog.
Join us – throw in your verses. Here are the rules (taken directly off their blog):
1. Write a poetic piece & post it on your blog
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4. Go visit others who have signed up! Offer support & encouragement. Share your love of words and insight respectfully. Please try to visit as many participating poets as you can. We all could use and appreciate kind feedback.
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About
autumn wind
wondering about lilies
in a mountain pond
Tell me a writer who really gets a satisfying jornal, in Spanish a daily wage or its equivalent, and I’ll bare a spirit in constant bouts of doubtfulness. Does a writer earn more because of what he writes and how he does it? Or is a writer paid more or less because of who he is? Is it money or honor he expects to receive?
Ahhh … but money as wage, and praise or honor as reward would be too predictable, too common as Job lamented in the Book of Job. It is in these lines that read: “Is not man’s life on earth nothing more than pressed service, his times no better than hired drudgery? Like the slave, sighing for the shade, or the workman with no thought but his wages, months of delusion I have assigned to me, nothing for my own but nights of grief. Lying in bed I wonder, ‘When will it be day?’ Risen I think, ‘How slowly evening comes!’
Restlessly I fret till twilight falls. Swifter than a weaver’s shuttle my days have passed, and vanished, leaving no hope behind. Remember that my life is but a breath, and that my eyes will never again see joy.”
Not money but joy is the ultimate wage as the passage implies. And joy is not hard to earn for it is in everyday life if we have eyes to see, a nose to smell, fingers to touch, ears to hear–a heart beating. This to me, is how a writer earns a daily wage. His wages then take the guise of treasures his heart can transfigure into a universe of thought that taps into other hearts, that causes a swirl in the depth of other souls, or that makes wings to sprout on leaden heels.
Sometimes not joy but rueful, poignant moments are my pick. Take what I earned once: On my walk home in my neighborhood, I caught two clumps of snowdrops–such tiny blossoms smaller than fingertips that do not look up but shyly droop close to black patches on the ground winter has frozen. That afternoon in the frosty wind, they trembled as if ready to turn away and run but how could they? For that poignant moment on seeing the wintry rain beat on the fragile snowdrop–as if pushing it to go home now, go to sleep–I earned my jornal, my daily wage.
Once on summer walk, the crackle of dried leaves just hit me both like the laughter of children and sobs long suppressed. Neither one of them would resolve the dryness, but I recalled how each does bring tears: laughter for joy, sobs for healing that comes with the release of a dammed-up pain. My jornal that day came as two haiku.
Fall has since shortened the day and the heart begins to crave for lost space that it doesn’t even recall which or where. I feel that most treasures have turned into mush so much so I wouldn’t be able to sift them off the ground. Yet I caught the dying day yesterday–so glorious in the gold of autumn it opened a flip side of serene heaven. Blades of grass coated in diadems of rain that carpet the lawns render royal walks poor by imitation. A burst of red maple against an inky blue sky humbled me, a soul bragging about her skill to recreate beauty in words.
I suppose I’m taking Job’s reflections to heart. I’d rather not gloss over each day and look beyond what’s there, right before me, or else fragile as is my breath one day “my eyes may never again see joy” to write. With what then will I compare the eternal joy, the ultimate wage I await?
Yet for now, as other eyes hanker to make the invisible visible, I put a tag on some moments of joy. Like on seeing the snowdrops, I paid myself $200 as my jornal.
What could have been yours?
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What a wonderful poem. It rolls along so smoothly as we ponder the journey of life.
I’m glad you like it! Thanks, Gigi Ann.
Great imagery in your lines. My favorite is “the air a fragile silk–” Deep poem. Much said between the lines too. Cheers
I love how you note the most “inspired” line in my poems! But it’s me who has to thank you for this space that challenges poets to write a poem within hours. It seems to be working for me better than when I have all the time. Thanks again!
Beautiful lines, beautiful poem. Well done. Especially liked “the unseen our eternity.”
Thank you, Glynn. The line you love just arose in that image over the horizon. What else does one see beyond that line? And the words words just wrote themselves in.
By the way, I’ve been trying to write comments on your poems but always fail. I loved how you structured “parallels” and how you sustained the tension in this week’s of “contrasts”. Your poems read with that tension that keep the lines geared up to a fine finish! Thank you for sharing them.
i like how you embrace the unknown, the things ahead – great ending as well with
the only now we know
is infinity in our journey
Thank you so much, Claudia! Coming from you whose poems always run in superb lines, I’m honored.
Yes, I’d like to let you know I haven’t failed to read your poetry and always want to leave a comment but often fail. I find each of them amazing!
Too many excellent lines and images to count in this one. A fine comparison of the physical to the life journey, and a great deal of substance. The very first line is a killer, and I also liked “a curve of doubt teetering
on the side of smoothened mounds…” Seems like it was right there in the picture, but invisible til I read that line…that may be one definition of poetry. 😉
Enjoyed it all, as always, Alegria, very much.
Thank you so very much, Joy! I believe your generous and uplifting “reviews” as well as those of the other great poets here, challenge me or perhaps inspire me to reach for the next “fall gingko branch” (my idea of inspirational bliss). It does seem scary to fail but this space, this blog has made it less ridden with angst. Thank you for always being there!
The depth, the imagery striking… so much left to see within the open road views.
Thank you, Petrina! Ohhh…I feel that if I add another word, I might break the spell of your inspiring words.
Lots of great lines and imagery here!
“…Our heartbeats stall among fissures of rock the chasm in our feelings.”
Finding my lines and imagery “great” is humbling, Giovanni! I love that line about “heartbeats”, too! Thanks so much!