Happy New Year!
The new writing has so many strands twisted together into one, fraying, and it is both brittle and strong. The story is a meditation on long forms: structure, repetition, standards, metaphor, and choreography. I attend to sections and lists and drift into the subliminal space of myth or silence. In poetry and prose, I seek to go behind the voice, or beyond, to place and movement or change. Here is it is a crossroads, here it is a cloud, here it is a tent.
THE SILKEN TENT
by Robert Frost
She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when a sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all the ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe nought to any single cord,
But strictly held by none is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one’s going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.
Robert Frost (1874 – 1963)