…not that I can tell the difference between an instant and a moment– What is, exactly, the fundamental unit of time? Is it a pause, or is it a question of how the equation’s processes are organized? Where is the boundary between thriving and decay? When do cobwebs begin to appear in the corners of the mind? Does the soul, too, become dust, or is it like zero, pivoting on an axis that has no location? Is time elemental like earth, like fire? Can it fall into ruin? –or is it integral to the devil’s work, a way of placing things on a line, consecutive and immutable? Is slow really opposite to fast, or, in fact, only a different way of measuring?–and where exactly is an instant to be found? Can it be held in place, or does it have no material form, no law to explain it, no real identity at all?
The NaPoWriMo prompt today was to make your own poem from an Emily Dickinson poem. I chose Crumbling is not an instant’s Act (1010). I went through and selected words and, using them in order, wrote my own poem around them. This is a method I often employ, using words from all kinds of sources. Emily is a good source.
For some reason what I wrote reminded me of Dylan’s Love Minus Zero/No Limit. OK, I did kind of borrow “like ice, like fire”. Here’s my favorite version, by Joan Baez.
Hands pause—you whistle between. White bridge slips through your fingers. Who can number the space of days? To cross them, you must open. The gate shapes all beginnings, all answers, to equal zero.
Lisa, at Tao Talk, supplied Colleen’s #TankaTuesday image, above. I wanted to try a sijo, which is the Wombwell Rainbow’s form this week. I think I’ve done one before, but it was a long time ago. I like the way it encourages the writer to think about different aspects of the same thought.
I’ve used some embroidered circles I did for a Kick-About prompt as illustration–the Eames Powers of Ten film, a barrage of images, made me think of zero, Lisa’s photo reminded me also of crossing the circles of space and time.
This week’s Oracle 2 words from Jane gave me a starting point–whistle. Which made me think of whistling in the wind. The human condition. Nevertheless, we continue.
You can read the story of the photo at Tao Talk here.
My life– How much more of it remains? The night is brief. –Masaoka Shiki
My hand traces invisible lines through each day. Life has its endings, but I wonder again why and how do we create so many boundaries? How much do we know of what we call ourselves? And what more is left, at this late date, to be discovered there? Of what am I really thinking when, with sudden fear, it seems that everything is impossible, that nothing remains? Have I used it all up–the synapses firing, the cells’ ability to regenerate rather than destroy? The night and the day and the sky and the land? Why is it so difficult to relocate the silence, that interlude of brief completion when everything is being born again?
The NaPoWriMo prompt today is a reverse Golden Shovel poem–instead of placing the words from the selected poem at the end of each line and writing around it, the words are placed at the beginning. Either way, it’s a good way to approach writing when you’re stuck. I’ve chosen a haiku from Masaoka Shiki for my poem, but I’m adding a little afterward from Joan and Bob.
Tears of rage, tears of grief Why must I always be the thief? Come to me now, you know we’re so alone And life is brief –Dylan
Also for Muri’s prompt of a Golden Shovel poem with the theme of change.