by Sam Rasnake
Now I become myself. — May Sarton
For some the thread runs
straight through — there to
here without ever saying
its name, without knowing
the bodies die, or the bridge
washes out, the path dissolves
to forest floor, then pasture
becomes skyline to street
to suburb to fence to door
but for others the thread was
never so with turns & turns &
turns again until all faces blur
to one — & then is now — there
is a smile / there is no smile —
no will to start / no way to stop
the who or what the selves might
be, could crave, must surely
claim — everything is change
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Actually, the genesis of this poem is ... William Blake meets William Stafford meets May Sarton meets 2020.
Published in 121, the Jan. 2021 issue of PoetsArtists. Thanks to Didi Menendez for including my work.
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Everything.
Well-spun and well-woven. (Heard Larkin's read of "An Arundel Tomb" just last night, so "faces blur" was right there.)
Good work.
soothing in the face of change *
Nice work!
Absolutely beautiful.
the spun and woven falling ...
Rare to see a poem so effectively distill the questions/propositions that whole philosophies have addressed if not foundered on. To feel it is the thing. We dangle from that thread above the abyss of absolute confusion.