ars poetica ~~ 1 june 2012 ~~~~~~   3 comments

Page Twenty-five

(respect to opal whiteley)

 

we are going the way that does lead…
little runs to the near woods, the far…
I did have (such lonesome) feels…
do have such lonesome feels…
did have knowings of star songs…
and their numbers were in blessings…
now are come (the days)…
at eventide…
early on the morning of today…
the (plants) did answer make…
lichen folk… when come winter days…
the trees grown old…
I did have hearing/seeing/knowing…
I did watch the willows all be cut…
 
 
we do drink unto our souls…
we do drink unto our souls
the song of the brook
drink unto our souls the offal of acid souls.
sorry to you opal child
that ogres hide behind each fairy,
hid for you and hide for me.
 
 
time to stop talking (but you are dead already).
time to stop hoping (you are already dead).
it is time, has been time a long time, to cease to love,
to cease to hear the lie of hope,
but you are dead and I exist in straining breath.
 
 
it’s time, it’s time
to never weave another dream…
it’s time to see the fairies cannot save us.
we are going the way to the blue hills,
to the flowers that paint the whole hillside in blue,
to the space where we and the animals wander
and wander in peace, singing, playing flutes…
we are going the way to those hills…
it is time that we never come back

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read…     streams four…    shadowpoems …

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2011-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.
 
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3 responses to “ars poetica ~~ 1 june 2012 ~~~~~~

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  1. Revo and MesAyah… many thanks for the follows

  2. What a sad and lovely and moving poem….”we are going the way to the blue hills
    let us never come back”–brings tears to my eyes. I hadn’t heard of Opal Whiteley, so I read up on her–a fascinating person, a sad life. Sounds like she believed that plants and animals have individual souls, which is my experience as well, so a kindred soul.

    • her diary — The Singing Creek Where the Willows Grow — is controversial. Did she write it when she was seven, as she always claimed, or not unitl she was nineteen and living in california. I don’t really care which. It is poetic and loving, full of pure bonding with nature and pure wonder. And life — and people — treated her quite shabbily for most of her ninety-odd years. It’s now thought along with her schizophrenia, which for most of her life was one delusion and one only, she also had Asperger’s. I thought she had it the minute I began reading the diary, before I’d read anyone else’s thoughts on the subject. As one who has also been treated pretty shabbily by both the randomness of living and by humans, my sadness for her is also my sorrow for myself.

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