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The Moving On
Feb. 14th, 2019 06:59 amI alleged that I would surely know it when I saw it, Gallagher's poem. But this morning, sitting, trying to calm myself, to reach equilibrium after a fit of coughing, I opened her book and, reading the second poem, realized that I had found it.
Why is it that remembered things are never as they once had seemed? Do we idealize, vilify, and for what reason?
Perhaps it is that what's remember is not the thing itself, but the wave on which we had once ridden when we first encountered it, the wonder, the electric current from wherever, that lights our senses with new discovery.
Then, after taking the necessary readings, recording the proof of my fitness to endure the surgeon's insult, I read her poem again. And the one before it and the one after it.
If not ecstatic, I was pleased. And my soul, having found its equilibrium, knew within itself that it was ready for the moving on...
LPK
Dreamwidth
2.14.2019
Why is it that remembered things are never as they once had seemed? Do we idealize, vilify, and for what reason?
Perhaps it is that what's remember is not the thing itself, but the wave on which we had once ridden when we first encountered it, the wonder, the electric current from wherever, that lights our senses with new discovery.
Then, after taking the necessary readings, recording the proof of my fitness to endure the surgeon's insult, I read her poem again. And the one before it and the one after it.
If not ecstatic, I was pleased. And my soul, having found its equilibrium, knew within itself that it was ready for the moving on...
LPK
Dreamwidth
2.14.2019
