reply to post by DJMessiah
Thought, brought to life by word, whether in prose or rhyme, is the connection through which strangers may meet. Poetry, in all its forms, is thought
More musing on TIME
by the masters:
Pythagoras, when asked what time was, answered that it was the soul of this world.
Swiftly the years beyond recall
Solemn the stillness of this fair morning
I will clothe myself in spring clothing
And visit the slopes of the Eastern Hill.
By the mountain stream a mist hovers
Hovers a moment, then scatters
There comes a wind blowing from the south
That brushes the fields of new corn.
The past is only the present become invisible and mute;
and because it is invisible and mute, its memoried
glances and its murmurs are infinitely precious. We are tomorrow's past.
Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils.
That night, for one moment in time, the owl and I were aware of each other- we met in an enchanted encounter that ended too quickly for me. Something
ancient bonded us. Blood and miracle and twilight had combined in a single charged alchemy, and I had, briefly, been in the magnificence, of a
night's own beak and talons. Out of darkness, out of the endlessly random permutations of time and place, a wonder had occured. Time had stood still.
The owl, with its moondial face, had brushed its wing over the flow of time. For those few seconds I had been completely in the moment- oblivious of
future and past, my senses alive to the night, the owl, and the beating of my own heart.
Christopher Dewdney from
Soul of the World (HarperCollins)