I am making a very large pot of split pea soup with chopped onions, garlic, carrots and some shin. Outside it is raining, a steady cold rain heralding winter. My small dogs are chewing up the underfelt of the carpets despite my stern warnings.
Earlier I went off to the hair stylist and heard about her long and unhappy engagement and came back with hair shining and loose on my shoulders. Then I had a fraught but vital teleconferencing session with media eople in Manhattan. Does anyone there ever pause to listen to anyone else?
Which made me think of the wonderful tragic poet Jack Spicer and all the really good poetry on my favourite pagan sites and about grounding into the reality here and now. The leaves on my pomegranate tree are bright canary yellow. Bougainvillea leaves swarm all over the north wall of my cottage, graceless but with power. Ditches are clogged with oaks leaves and the mauve ribbon bush is out looking like a small girl on her way to a birthday party.
Jack Spicer. His poem Thing Language. With love to Manhattan that was once a green island place by the ocean.
This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.
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