Open Road Media

Now we are able only to graph the flight;

For we never actually rose from the ground,

By Moonlight
We are true lovers without hope

Whose hearts are locked to time,

So lie with me on the grassy sward

On the cool black-shadowed slope,

For we’ll not sleep in a close warm room:

Whatever we are moving toward

An ample bed’s not our reward

Who are mad with the moon.

Wherever passionate love is leading

We’ll be discovering alone,

So little hope it can endure,

So wild, so deep, so dark the needing

That even fastened bone to bone,

We’ll not have lasting peace, that’s sure,

Nor any haven from despair

Who love by light of moon.

So come, though we shall never rest

In any house to call our own,

By any hearth we light and tend,

Lie here upon the cold earth’s breast

And lean your length hard on the stone:

Hearts break and they may also mend

But here until the certain end,

Wed me by light of moon.

Now the great open sky is ours

And the long light across the loam,

And we, gigantic hearts of dust,

Lie open like night-blooming flowers.

The homeless moon is our bright home,

And we shine too because we must,

Oh magic that we cannot trust,

The lovely changing moon!

Moving In
I moved into my house one day

In a downpour of leaves and rain,

“I took possession,” as they say,

With solitude for my domain.

At first it was an empty place

Where every room I came to meet

Watched me in silence like a face:

I heard the whisper of my feet.

So huge the absence walking there

Beside me on the yellow floor,

That one fly buzzing on the air

But made the stillness more and more.

What I possessed was all my own,

Yet not to be possessed at all,

And not a house or even hearthstone,

And never any sheltering wall.

There solitude became my task,

No shelter but a grave demand,

And I must answer, never ask,

Taking this bridegroom by the hand.

I moved into my life one day

In a downpour of leaves in flood,

I took possession, as they say,

And knew I was alone for good.

. That was the original flame. It was good enough, but along the way I mixed it all up. I thought it could heal the world; it could heal me; it could do everything, because I felt so good when I wrote. I took one step ahead of the ordinary good act of writing. I wanted to become successful, noticed, famous, so I could finally get the love and attention I didn’t get as a child.

I took writing outside writing. I took my life outside life. I wanted to throw it way ahead of me, thinking it would cure something way behind me. “If I get famous, then... ,” “If I get this book finished, then... ,” “If I win this grant, then... ,” “If I get published, then...”

We need to let writing be writing and let it give us what it gives us in the moment. If we connect with anything in the moment, it frees us of the past, present, and future. We are just there. If we are chopping wood, we are chopping wood; brushing our teeth, brushing our teeth; walking, walking.

heard it said that the past always catches up with us.

The Politics of Experience,

My Stanford-Binet corrected score (in your terms) is 187, my wife's 205 and my daughter's 193

I've fought four duels. I've killed four times

finally got home with one paw, proof enough (I thought)

the new gentleman assistant