I don’t mean to think on Yeats so much, with his questionable politics and crazed lovemaking. But these and the strange, illegible spirituality only made the poetry; they aren’t the poetry themselves, are they?
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light?
In times of change nothing feels solid
I would but I cannot
I would but I must
I have not been feeling myself lately. Those who know me know I’m pursued by reckless changeable moods. Those who are with me not only know but also suffer these changes.
I am pursued by that sense of futility that all those who lose self-perspective, that have a mite of narcissism, that try to make things and must suspend critical thinking in the making, that try to think within a paradigm (for me of evolutionary beauty) that most live outside of, at least in their minds.
Seattle is perhaps not a good place to gain any sort of perspective.
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
At any rate.
The world is full of troubles
and is anxious in its sleep
Or is it just me, I, waking to the moon and walking into the dark?
But, wait, I must tell you, we saw a bat in the park next to our house last night. I cannot say how happy it made me—their flight is unworldly. It flew into the clear sky, dipping and turning, up and down back and forward and then vanished beyond the trees.
The bat, and the baby cormorant: all of this, here, in here.
And of course my quail, who are doing what now? who are, perhaps, sleeping under a manzanita or lemonade-berry bush till the sun dips and they emerge for their evening meal.