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A Poet's Journal: April 8th, 2012

April 8th, 2012

There is nothing we do not cease questioning unless it is phenomena, but the sweetness of the supernatural no longer strengthens the choice of explanation. There was a time when all my good luck was attributed to the direct consequence of a small attention I may have given, or the effect of a deed that I let go unnoticed, but now I find it that luck has ceded its place to the much less remarkable and much more dull idea of circumstance: what happens to me is bound to happen because the outcome exists somewhere in the world. I have not lost the desire to see into the secrets of the universe and the human mind, but I more regularly demand of them a cause. The other day, as to why a solemn raspberry-bush grew alone in the forest next to a running creek, I could only think of the germination of seeds and their propagation by birds, and had lost the interest to muse that an ancient habitation may have faded from that spot, or the haste of some travelling worker had left hi…
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Anectahi's Chant

Here is an excerpt from a poem entitled Anectahi's Chant published in Woodland Poems.

Anectahi's Chant
The hearts of men rest Far from where they sleep And dream profusely In the night; absence Is the only joy That moves their spirits Closer to the form Each impression hides.
Obscure be the ways In which their visions Turn truth in the mind To rename its fate, And by this, conceive Of present worth, false Entangled judgements Not to be escaped.

A Poet's Journal: March 31st, 2012

March 31st, 2012
I believe spring brings to us new endeavors which are not entirely our own. Only so many times can I look out the window at the bright sun before I am inspired by something that cold and quiet reflection had hidden. It is not that I have called forth some urge or hidden desire, but have been summoned to some enterprising task the beginning and end of which has a common but undefinable link with the odours of new blossoms and the green leaf. To one in spring-time, his fears are often fulfilled not by what habitually scares him, but by the idea that he may miss out on the plenitude of the experience--he cares only for his emotion, the rest is not for him to be burdened with. I parch corn, pick herbs, and eat weeds; for these are more than just efforts, but symbolic of inner conquest, whereupon the strength and creativity of the mind depend--he who knows not the taste of these things, knows not the virtue of his thought; and all of this, in the end, culminates in the ex…