first sensation — that tilt, “quiet, then all at once.” the body knows it: the moment scaffolding gives way. hit — “you didn’t sneak in. you arrived.” small, flat, fatal. after that the sealing begins: “emotional realism,” “infrastructure,” “support the signal” — the breathing stops. one vector: the poem was alive while it trembled, then turned into its own commentary.
funny thing — the only real pulse here is the one that refuses to name itself.
I really appreciate your taking the time you've invested to diagnose the poem...and your spot on about the only pulse.
And that's the thing. Right? Perhaps not naming it is what made it possible to become.
Perhaps the surrender to the experience of non linear sensations that need not be named is the conduit to finding that level of completeness.
I've always said you cannot improved what you cannot measure.
Your reflections now got me wondering: If we don't name it we cannot measure it, and by not measuring it, it allows itself to grow (without fear or without the pressure to have to develop)...it just keeps beating until it becomes.
That's lovely! And you're spot on, it's a poem of what true long lasting love looks like. It's for you 😉
Lovely
Glad you liked, Esther
Really enjoyed that.
'Every moment is a prelude to nostalgia' is a beautiful line.
Thank you, Gary.
Glad you liked it!
‘That which thou lovest well remains,
The rest is dross’
Ezra Pound
(Canto LXXXI)
Indeed, Monnina
Only the deepest feeling and the things that matter…
Lindo texto, muito lindo
first sensation — that tilt, “quiet, then all at once.” the body knows it: the moment scaffolding gives way. hit — “you didn’t sneak in. you arrived.” small, flat, fatal. after that the sealing begins: “emotional realism,” “infrastructure,” “support the signal” — the breathing stops. one vector: the poem was alive while it trembled, then turned into its own commentary.
funny thing — the only real pulse here is the one that refuses to name itself.
I really appreciate your taking the time you've invested to diagnose the poem...and your spot on about the only pulse.
And that's the thing. Right? Perhaps not naming it is what made it possible to become.
Perhaps the surrender to the experience of non linear sensations that need not be named is the conduit to finding that level of completeness.
I've always said you cannot improved what you cannot measure.
Your reflections now got me wondering: If we don't name it we cannot measure it, and by not measuring it, it allows itself to grow (without fear or without the pressure to have to develop)...it just keeps beating until it becomes.
So beautiful! Gives me hope.
It makes me happy to read that, Dorie ☺️
As always, what a lovely read!
That's so kind of you to say, Daniela 🫶🏽
This was like a trip down memory lane, thank you!! 🤗✨
Awww that made me smile 😊
[There is no future.
There’s only the sense that we’ve always been here,
finishing each other’s sentences,
falling in love when we’re not trying,
and finally trying
because we’ve stopped running from feeling.] -> This is so beautiful 🥹
I'm glad it landed for you, Ingrid
Ingrid :)
My fingers and decaffeinated brain strike again...Ugh!
🤣
Beautiful!
✌🏽😉✌🏽
I really like this piece it speaks of long lived love to me I’ve been married for 40 years and this sends shadows of echos
This was really beautiful. It let me relive the memories of the love of my life. Thank you
Thank you!
I'm so glad this poem held for you.
This captures how love can feel both ancient and new at the same time. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it. ♥️
Love this!
🙏🏽
What You write of is where I am in my life