The Arc of Poetry

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They went out on the dock while the great, white egret was working along the shore, her head curved and swaying like the wind
They said they watched her strike many times before she flew up, close above them as they swam in the water and she looked down at them before perching on a stump of a snag
She’s been with us for days
The fishing is good

So what I want you to do is
Take the dream lines from Macbeth
And tie them to the leaking roof and the drips in the closet and the mudroom
Then tie it all to the dream and complacency we find when all is well
The leaks only a problem when it’s raining

But where are the dream lines from Macbeth?
They have vanished
Into the air,
Melted, as breath into the wind

Maybe taken like
The insane root that takes reason prisoner

So we are
Ship set sail
Rudderless feasting
On Hyperion’s cattle grazing

What about the play, the script from
Såsom i en spegel?
That the true artist makes no art
But her life is art
Is that all rot too?

We spin round
Sometimes awake
Sometimes nodding
Like the tresses in her hair
Among the weeds searching out flowers
Finding instead the great gift of being common

And this life that is art or is not art continues
For once perfectly happy to be completely ordinary
And forgetting what art is but marveling at life

The wind on the water, the egret wing beats
The white on the green

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2 thoughts on “The Arc of Poetry”

  1. Nice work here. Really loved it.
    If I wasn’t so far, or if I wasn’t so preoccupied, I’d offer to help with roofing. You guys still soaked?

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