This weekend I traveled to Amsterdam and back. People, places and things were not where and what they were supposed to be, and yet everything was in its place.
I read poems with other poets and musicians as a packed room and Proust in a painting listened. I don’t remember the applause, but I’m sure there was some. Reading fills my mouth and heart as I become the words I’ve put on the page. Thus I realize I am the poem.
Today the sky is a color I can’t really call blue, although I can’t not call it blue, either. Tears are the same color sometimes. And in any case, the sky is spectacularly just what it is, this afternoon still the luminous splendor that met me this morning while still in my bed. Day advances, and sun and wind and I, although none of us are going anywhere.
Although I wasn’t there I’m sure each one of those who were there "performing" their art became it. I just don’t know if they knew it or not 🙂
I think that when writing something or playing music we are what we are doing as well as when we cook or wash the dishes. The difference is being aware of it I guess.
As I was reading the second part I remembered something I read a few days ago by Alexandre O’Neill in the 70’s. It calls "Blue air" (I’m not an expert in translation but I’ll try my best):
blue more blue than all the blue of the sea
blue more blue than all the blue of the world
how blue the blue has
there in the blue sky
to where my little bird blue-away
blue is a word with 4 lettres that has nothing to do with what we experience …
In chinese i am sure the word will be totaly different –
Even the colour that is formed in our eyes is made by the quality of the light…
all a frequency of energy
everything deeply interconnected
it is beautifull to be the poem
Missed you, too, although now reading each other, we meet here.
Answering your bow, thank you.
Beautiful.. Sory I missed your reading/becoming/being poems.. Though I’m sure also it was OK.. Deep Gassho, W