the various colors of W

“I want to be happy.”

I want/   this is a grasping

to be/      this isn’t now

happy/    this is process               disguised as an outcome

Here   Now 

This is the experience of

what is     as it is    even when    This Is    is    what is   presently absent

and that’s the irony

presently absent/  a hole in the fabric of   what is              my                                      emotional skin

hole/ is “W” gone rogue

whereas the fabric of my personal tapestry

(whole)

strands  I   weave

1st the blue thread

2nd the red

next is shadow, sage, copper, ivory, lemon, lime, apricot, amber, platinum, silver, salmon, chartreuse, vermillion, ochre, teal, amaranth, lavender, spruce, ruby and cerulean

presently    this is/ a shift of awareness

 

 

 

 

oscillates the poetic pendulum

Between Voice and Thought, between Thought and Voice, between Presence and Absence, oscillates the poetic pendulum.

“I introduce here a slight observation which I shall call ‘philosophical,’ meaning simply that we could do without it.

Our poetic pendulum travels from our sensation toward some idea or some sentiment, and returns toward some memory of the sensation and toward the potential act which could reproduce the sensation. Now, whatever is sensation is essentially present. There is no other definition of the present except sensation itself, which includes, perhaps, the impulse to action that would modify that sensation. On the other hand, whatever is properly thought, image, sentiment, is always, in someway, a production of absent things. Memory is the substance of all thought. Anticipation and its gropings, desire, planning, the projection of our hopes, of our fears, are the main interior activity of our being.

Thought is, in short, the activity which causes what does not exist to come alive in us, lending to it, whether we will or no, our present powers, making us take the part for the whole, the image for reality, and giving us the illusion of seeing, acting, suffering, and possessing independently of our dear old body”

~ The Art of  Poetry, Paul Valéry