Sometimes all there is to do is to make space in your body for it to feel a thing, feelings which must come, and then go. We are usually happier with the letting go.
I had a dream I was sitting with my love on a stone moss-covered bench.
Mostly I sit inside, these days, looking out. There is a tree growing out of a hole in the stone wall I can see from my basement library window spot. There are people outside on benches I can see from the upstairs window spot near the books on red attic vases. I wrote this poem the other day while observing two of them.
The green green grass
Two lovers on a bench
were men supporting
each other were not
fearful in the spring
the new leaves like
perfect capes just opening
another green, bright
against the grey
were leaning against
each other supporting
this spring were you
and I the same like
lovers we would sit.
Here, stay, I'd say.
You're far away another
green has come to sprout
each bud-miracle a gift
of life, we're the same,
I'd say.
With my dissertation, I'm doing a strange kind of writing. I have old paragraphs, pages, no structure to rework, but my own mental work, eight years of it or so, to add, as a layer, to the already existing text. It is interesting work, sometimes frustrating, but sometimes strangely satisfying. I wonder if my readers will be able to perceive the layers.
Maybe that is why this poem is rather strange. I don't want syntax, I don't even want form, I want a few commas, and some images, some green. These days that's all I really want, some green.
