Wind. It varies from the mildest caress to death-dealing blows. Since human beings hoisted ancient sails above a raft, wind mated with cloth and canvas to carry us across the water.
Leaning into the Wind
Ecclesiastes had it right about the wind and its whims
Unpredictable as a two-year-old, a presence leaning in
Not so like a child, wind crosses thresholds, pushes through
But awareness allows the feel of tousled hair, tear-streaked eyes
and covering skin to shiver against wind-roiled skies
Leaning into the wind
lean out and away from pier’s edge reading a farewell letter
teeter on the precipice’s ledge tethered with slender thread
like Edwards’ “loathsome spider” blown off all eight legs
Leaning, drowning, looking up to ocean surface light
while moorings slip and wind pushes vessel out of sight
Like birds born with wings, the joy of pinions lifts and flutters
Born to write, the poet’s quill pulls taut every written letter
From summer to spring, birds and writers resist headstrong winds
take the pummeling, beat the heart, receive the blows of darker things
Bound hair now loosed and feathers blown and floating
Tricks of flying - sing the notes, lose fear of going
Lean hard and let the starboard tempests blow us home
Hold taut the mainsail and let fly the jib
The wind-driven, right-made sail, like pen and ink, is all there is!
On the balcony, poet’s trousers flap ‘round both legs
while with breath and pen the writer begs
for another long and gorgeous downwind run
Unwritten words emerging from mindful pen as one
Lean in! Lean in! Slaves and masters of swelling canvas and empty page
Raise the teasing pen, lean farther out and rage
Keep paper, pen, and wits tacked tight near the body-mast
Lean at the lip of the breach - only air below – and laugh
Lean in! Lean in!
When gales turn to softer rain
Begin! Lean in! Begin again!
Encouragement for All Writers. . .
Like the wrath of god, your waters are dammed only for the moment
and your bent bow shall pierce the hearts of us all
Background:
Calling oneself a writer, and more specifically a poet, requires a level of hubris most people can’t muster. On the other hand, just about everyone who has learned to write readable language seems to believe that s/he has a story to tell. Thus we are pummeled with some horrendous prose. Obviously, the above poem, once again, contains a metaphor: the wind and sail standing in for the writer (sail) and the muses of the wind that bring inspiration.
Calling oneself a writer, and more specifically a poet, requires a level of hubris most people can’t muster. On the other hand, just about everyone who has learned to write readable language seems to believe that s/he has a story to tell. Thus we are pummeled with some horrendous prose. Obviously, the above poem, once again, contains a metaphor: the wind and sail standing in for the writer (sail) and the muses of the wind that bring inspiration.
Like the wind, inspiration surrounds those with the senses to apprehend it. Still, to reap the rewards of inspiration, one must make the effort, do the work, pen to paper (fingers to computer) – only thing are writings of beauty created. These are the musings of your Monday poet.
Explorations
Exploration #1: What might it feel like to “lean into the wind?”
Exploration #2: Is the time and effort required to create a piece of writing worth it?
Exploration #3: Other pursuits that require “leaning into the wind,” include scientific discovery and geographic exploration. Do you have an activity that qualifies as “leaning into the wind”? (FYI: it is just fine if you don’t.
Your Monday Poet, - Jack Pine Savage
You're making good use of your postcards. I especially liked this nautical poem; you've been a sailor too. And here we are in drydock, far from the sea, spinning out our memories.
ReplyDeleteYou say the wind is inspiration and the sail, the poet. Is the ship the poem, written in the captain's log?
Leaning into the wind is experiencing the world by standing up on the deck, not sheltering in the cabin, drinking coffee, reading a book. After you're "experienced," you can scamper down to the cozy cabin and take out pen and paper.
Is the time and effort worth it? I know it is for you, that's pretty obvious. Plus you've told me so. For me too. Preparing for a trip is half the fun. Writing about it afterwards is the other half.
My leaning in activity is travel. To be lost at night in a strange city.... thugs down every alleyway... great guys really, once you get to know them. Cancelled flights, nasty airports, turbulence in the skies....ah, I can't wait to get home and write about it all!
I like your FYI. Perhaps the advanced seeker takes the Void for his or her activity. There is no cozy cabin in the Void; the Void is a cozy cabin.
DeleteYes, thanks for the postcards, and yes, they have been put to good use. What better use than inspiration. My sailing days appear to be over; however, I have a foc’sle full of good times punctuated by sheer terror. Still have my sailing gloves and deck shoes.
In regard to your question of the ship as the poem, I prefer to think of the boat as language, itself, the supporting structure for sailing alone along toward the home port, which is the poem. On the other hand, I like your interpretation as well. No one answer to a poem.
Nothing feels so cozy as safe harbor, shelter, and that cup of coffee after being tested by the elements on a comparatively flimsy raft. Nothing so satisfying as all that adventure tucked away in our experienced imaginations. I know you’ve done your share of sailing as well, so I know you understand what I’m saying. Then there’s “time and effort.” Worth it? Such civilized concepts disappear in the face of adventures. A world without time and no effort. For me, I must disagree on the 50/50 split between the adventure and the writing. In my view, they are equal, summing to 200% due to their exponential natures.
Finally, to add to your comments on “the advanced seeker,” it seems to me that once the external adventures wane due to the rigors of aging (an adventure not for sissies), poor health, or, going beyond beyond, or just plain “being done,” the intrepid seeker turns the light inward, takes a backward step, and as you say, enters the Void where all memory becomes homogenous, yet cherished. I completely resonate with your insight about the Void being the cozy cabin – the place where I now reside happily, internal adventures being the norm.