Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone's soul heal. Walk out of your house like a shepherd. (Rumi)
I had a great idea for a poem,
A succinct nugget of insight
which summarized and symbolized
and synthesized
One of the secrets of life.
It was so profound and moving
and true at the core,
I didn’t write it down.
I knew I would remember.
I didn’t.
So, I can’t share it with you.
I can only believe it
still lives somewhere in me,
Somwhere currently incommunicado
with my conscious mind,
and that it can teach me
what I don’t remember
but need to learn.
(A poem inspired by William Wordsworth’s
“Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey”)
Today I lectured on Wordsworth.
“Lectured” – pshaw!
I strutted and crowed and danced on the balls of my feet.
I pathetically attempted to convey the ebullience
that eddied through my softened heart
in much the same way that the poet seemed to reach beyond his reach
to corral with words that moment when we
“see into the life of things.”
I spoke of nature and meditation
and the place of wisdom that lives beyond consciousness.
I stretched synonyms and cajoled imagery
to see if any words were worth
the moment of experience
when soul touches soul,
mind touches nature,
all that is touches all I am.
I lifted my arms, my eyes, my voice,
as I tried to carry a roomful
of baby scholars
to the banks of the River Wye.
I engaged every descriptive power
I have ever possessed
to give them just a whisper of an idea
about the presence, the sense, the spirit
which lives in the blissful moment of
pure connection,
and which the poet
dared to attempt to explain
though he knew better than all of us
how futile that effort would surely be.
I tried. Oh, how I tried.
And then I looked at the rows of faces,
some blank and unreadable,
but some smiling, some nodding,
some radiating the knowing,
and I knew.
I had not transported them to Tintern Abbey.
We had traveled together to this moment,
a moment of pure connection,
that the poet would reach beyond reach
to dare to attempt to explain.
Valentine loves to be held.
She pecks at my jeans, squints into the sun, practically begs.
But she’s scrawny and hen-pecked.
Comb always bloody. Knobby feet.
The others I’ve never touched.
Sure, as downy chicks. Never since.
Stunning creatures proudly strutting,
Every tail feather in place.
I’ve tried several methods of capture.
Step One – Earn Trust. Hand feed them.
Cabbage. Carrots. Cauliflower.
Step Two – Employ subterfuge.
Stoop down still as a stone, and then –
Step Three – Cut off escape. Corner one.
I do not recommend step three.
I’m working on a poem about catching chickens.
First attempt – Focus. Concentrate. Think chickens.
So much depends on a red wheelbarrow
Second attempt – Relax. Clear your mind. Try NOT to think.
About a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater
Third attempt – Just write. Stream of consciousness.
Just . . . a stream . . . beside the white chickens
Some poems beg to be written.
I’ve held one or two.
But they’re usually jerky.
Scrawny symbolism. Knobby feet.
Others strut across the page.
Stunning. Majestic.
Almost untouchable,
But so worth the chase.
What would happen if I did what I want?
If I wrote instead of working (as if writing is just a big bowl of warm blackberry cobbler with ice cream and not actually work). If I took all the eggs out of the money-must-be-earned-to-pay-these-bills basket and put them in the passion-lives here-but-you might-starve basket. If I made a dream a priority.
What would happen if I changed the whole shape and tenor of my life?
If I dared to leap. If I leapt to dare. If I measured possibilities for joy instead of the risks of coming up short.
What would happen if one time, just one time, I didn’t analyze, consider, ponder, determine potential outcomes, weigh options, choose wisely? What would happen if I did not prepare words in advance? What would happen if I tore up the balance sheet I keep for money? And grudges. And me-and-you.
What would happen if I dismantled the system I’ve constructed called “How To Get Through Life” and replaced it with a merry-go-round of pink horses and red dragons and blue dolphins? If I stopped marching to so many different drummers and danced like a dervish instead. If I laughed more and growled less.
What would happen if I took the painting of the me I have allowed the world to see, covered it in white, and started again? With brighter colors this time, bolder strokes, a little less Baroque and a little more Impressionism.
What would happen if I did what I want?
I’ll you what would happen. I’d be living from my heart.
Deb Moore 