It is raining so, so hard today. I love it. Everything is muffled. I drove to get milk this morning. Normally I would ride my bike, but it was raining really hard. The streets were deserted, and the air was so fresh.
I am reading poetry in bed. There should be more poetry in the world, not iPads or iPods, gadgets, video games, TVs, computers. On an evening like this all that is needed is the sound of the rain and printed words on a page. Why does modern man occupy himself so and need to fill every single square inch of silence and solitude with digital and other content? Are we so afraid to be with ourselves for a minute and sense the world? Are we afraid the world is so separate from us, like some giant clock that keeps running regardless of whether our heartbeat is in the mix?
Perhaps.
To me, poetry is about decoding the world through language, but in a way which lets the gray spaces come forward and claim our attention. Poetry is language, movement (because it's rhythm, too), imagery (because our imagination engine revs up), but unless you sing it or speak it, there is no sound.
This is a poem for tonight:
I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
(robert frost)
