When I dream of writing about you, there are gardens of perfect words waiting to be picked. Syllables would taste like the last peach of summer, would sound like one random Sunday morning together when snow fell soft in the mountains.
Yet time after time my hands come back empty.
And somehow that’s the story. How everything I try to say about you turns to mist, how every sentence falls short of what I feel. The most beautiful phrases dissolve like morning fog when I reach for them.
You’re in every unwritten line.
The page stays blank, but oh, how I love.
Originally published on my Medium page
Another good one, Andy! I loved the artistic narrative voice weaved through our. Les Murray says something about being stopped in his tracks, while reading poems, and asking "Now why did the poet do that?" This happens all the time. It's part of the code-breaking. When a word or phrase appears that's arresting, it does two things: it challenges my perceptions of seeing/hearing/feeling, and it moves me into new territory. By this I mean an altered state of awareness that's akin to an extended daydream, where all my senses conspire to provide fertile and syntactically engaging words or lines. It happens rarely, but when I'm there I tend to make the most of it, for days sometimes.
Perhaps I'm not the only reader who finds you hilarious, in a ghoulish way -- like a stand-up vampire.
I would like to connect, read eachothers work consistently. Subscribe, I imagine our bonded willpower with these exercises will bear much fruit. I'll be in touch!
This is art. ✨