new old kid on the blog,
with an occasional
old or new poem written off
the old writer's block
I can hear this lovely little poem sounding through the majestic silence of great trees (your pines, our redwood), across large waters, from the stillness of the night.(Reminded of the German "Rauschen" -- that gentle rush of either wind or water, hard to say which, heard faintly from the edge of the forest, in which Adorno located the essence of the Lyric.)
Whenever I hear/see the wind sounding through our pines, this poem always comes to mind:When will you speak again?They are children of many men, our words.They are sown and brought forth like infants;they take root and are nourished with blood.As pineskeep the shape of the windeven when the wind has fled and is no longer there,so wordsguard the shape of maneven when man has fled and is no longer there.Perhaps the stars seek to speakwhich trod upon your nakedness one night--the Swan, the Archer, the Scorpion--perhaps those.But where will you be at the moment when,here in this theater, the light comes on?--George Seferis, poem #6, Part Two of "Three Secret Poems"Thanks again for sharing your thoughts.