[Untitled]Lake Michigan has a voice for each season.In the fall, it is raspy, an octave lowerthan just a month before as wavescrash onto the shore with choppy,cold strokes.Its movements amplify against the autumnleaves and fill your head with urgency,as if to make you remember the sounds beforethe ice creates only silence, distant creaks,low groans.I was hypnotized by its song. I felt a rhythmthat I can only describe as timeless or primalor something even more.I picked up a stone.
Of course, this is how it has to be. Poetry moves through us when we aren't looking [for poetry], and maybe only then. There's a kind of listening that doesn't anticipate, that doesn't plan its response. As Jiddu Krishnamurti has said, "There is a totally different kind of energy when there is pure perception, which is not related to thought and time."
Yesterday I quoted MLK, Jr. at length -- he talked about how there was a need to go back, to rediscover something that was lost. Maybe that's what all of this is about. I think poetry is a part of what was lost. To find it again requires this totally different kind of energy, though. Like a perfectly thrown Hail Mary into the end-zone, poetry is nothing unless it finds a wide-open receiver. I'm re-inspired to become that receiver, that reader, that listener.
Also, my wife's pregnant. Ha! Seriously! Due date: April 25th.