Prose trying to be a Poem
It’s hard trying not to fill a page with hot air
Nothing remarkable has been left unsaid since the flatness of the world was in dispute; curiosity has destroyed whatever was once curious, and invention has overtaken invention until we are fatigued by successive wonders and retreat into the unfathomably familiar, the roundness of the world, the circle of life, sunrise and sunset.
I always wanted to see things as the poets do, not wanting posterity, but to be a poet read. Writing within an imaginative light, fingering diaries, thoughts, words filling a thousand pages, thinking of something else, revealing the poet in the narrative.
It wasn’t that way.
I always had a hankering for travel, being raised on an island, and having the good sense to keep from thinking about the consequences. I am by nature, a dreamer, a writer because I am by circumstance, a rebel. There’s always a story to be told about escaping to the home fields, looking for the same mountain paths that blessed my childhood, living with the simple matters of winter, and the coldness of land when away from the seas, and the summers with shining skin.
Parts of this story have been told here, there, and everywhere. Gathering up the tides, turning each chapter over before letting it go. A story that began as a long slow journey but hurries toward its end, having crawled, walked, and run on the sand.
Once afraid of childhood shadows — familiar enough now — are a comfort to me when lost. There’s deep security in what once was, desiring no new thing, fearing no premonition, carried along on modern currents, remembering landmarks that kept me in touch with myself.
For a long time, I lived in a world isolated. I mean, more than going to an airport, looking at a departure board and it never saying home — that always broke my heart.
Sometimes there was nowhere left to run or hide, just be in another place. I would recall the old house, quiet, remote, strong against the uproar set against it, safe within its walls. In life, there is always some entangling regret.
I see the world the way the poet does, having a fondness for words, and literature, and becoming a friend to prose where memories are the most endearing and durable.
The serenity of the mind is found in the easy breathing of a sentence, its rhythm full of light and movement, a calm ocean upon the page.
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