So the rain’s pouring down. There was a shitload of thunder in the last five minutes, which I attempted to record, and I posed a question (was it a question? Maybe not. Just a thought). We can write words and we can speak words, sentences, paragraphs, whole chapters, whole poems, epic ones, free verse ones, haikus, whatever genre you want to pick in that area. And it’s interesting because usually, the poet of today has to be able to both write the poem and to speak the poem, speak meaning a recitation of poetry, reading, or whatever. Many, many years ago, I don’t know if this was the case. It could be that (John) Donne had a crap voice. Even Shakespeare could have had a crap voice, but it’s unlikely. Goethe too, Pessoa too etc.but, speaking and writing are different. There is no question about it. And this is poetry as a topic. Nature’s poetry doesn’t have metaphors and similes. It has thunder, lightning, rain. intense heat, colours galore, greens beyond description. And truly beyond description. Sounds … infinite and also beyond description, and the petty attempt of human beings, to interpret, explore, mimic, capture, define … all of that – Well, it’s worth a try, isn’t it? So, my legs are getting wet sitting here outside. And the church bell goes off! In its infinite wisdom, to tell us what time it is. As if time is of any real significance … and it’s beautiful. It’s a truthful expression of the insignificance of everything. And vice versa.
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