{"id":18250,"date":"2016-07-15T12:16:01","date_gmt":"2016-07-15T16:16:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=18250"},"modified":"2016-07-15T12:16:01","modified_gmt":"2016-07-15T16:16:01","slug":"sky-and-i-sharing","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2016\/07\/sky-and-i-sharing\/","title":{"rendered":"Sky and I, Sharing"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"'Dream,'<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “Dream,” by Finnish photographer Mikko Lagerstedt<\/a> (Facebook<\/a>\/Instagram<\/a>); one of several in his “Edge” collection.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

\n

The Mockingbird<\/strong><\/p>\n

All summer
\nthe mockingbird
\nin his pearl-gray coat
\nand his white-windowed wings<\/p>\n

flies
\nfrom the hedge to the top of the pine
\nand begins to sing, but it’s neither
\nlilting nor lovely,<\/p>\n

for he is the thief of other sounds—
\nwhistles and truck brakes and dry hinges
\nplus all the songs
\nof other birds in his neighborhood<\/p>\n

mimicking and elaborating,
\nhe sings with humor and bravado,
\nso I have to wait a long time
\nfor the softer voice of his own life<\/p>\n

to come through. He begins
\nby giving up all his usual flutter
\nand settling down on the pine’s forelock
\nthen looking around<\/p>\n

as though to make sure he’s alone;
\nthen he slaps each wing against his breast,
\nwhere his heart is,
\nand, copying nothing, begins<\/p>\n

easing into it
\nas though it was not half so easy
\nas rollicking,
\nas though his subject now<\/p>\n

was his true self,
\nwhich of course was as dark and secret
\nas anyone else’s,
\nand it was too hard—<\/p>\n

perhaps you understand—
\nto speak or to sing it
\nto anything or anyone
\nbut the sky.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Oliver [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Peridot<\/strong><\/p>\n

I awoke in an ecstasy.
\nThe sky was the color of a cut lime
\nthat had sat in the refrigerator
\nin a plastic container
\nfor thirty-two days.
\nFact-checkers, check.
\nI am happy.
\nNotice I speak in complete sentences.
\nSomething I have not done since birth.
\nAnd the sky responds.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Ruefle [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Many people used to believe that angels moved the stars. It now appears that they do not. As a result of this and like revelations, many people do not now believe in angels. Many people used to believe that the ‘seat’ of the soul was somewhere in the brain. Since brains began to be opened up frequently, no one has seen ‘the soul’. As a result of this and like revelations, many people do not now believe in the soul. Who could suppose that angels move the stars, or be so superstitious as to suppose that because one cannot see one’s soul at the end of a microscope it does not exist?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(R. D. Laing [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Since the first human eye saw a leaf in Devonian sandstone and a puzzled finger reached to touch it, sadness has lain over the heart of man. By this tenuous thread of living protoplasm, stretching backward into time, we are linked forever to lost beaches whose sands have long since hardened into stone. The stars that caught our blind amphibian stare have shifted far or vanished in their courses, but still that naked, glistening thread winds onward. No one knows the secret of its beginning or its end. Its forms are phantoms. The thread alone is real; the thread is life.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Loren Eiseley [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Hinged Double Sonnet for the Luna Moths<\/strong><\/p>\n

Norton Island, Maine<\/em><\/p>\n

For ten days now, two luna moths remain
\nsilk-winged and lavish as a double broach
\npinned beneath the porch light of my cabin.
\nTwo of them, patinaed that sea-glass green
\nof copper weather vanes nosing the wind,
\nthe sun-lit green of rockweed, the lichen’s
\ngreen scabbing-over of the bouldered shore,
\nthe plush green peat that carpets the island,
\nthat hushes, sinks then holds a boot print
\nfor days, and the sapling-green of new pines
\nsprouting through it. The miraculous green
\norigami of their wings—false eyed, doomed
\nand sensual as the mermaid’s long green fins:
\na green siren calling from the moonlight.<\/p>\n

A green siren calling from the moonlight,
\nfrom the sweet gum leaves and paper birches
\nthat shed, like tiny white decrees, scrolled bark.
\nThey emerge from cocoons like greased hinges,
\nall pheromone and wing, instinct and flutter.
\nThey rise, hardwired, driven, through the creaking
\npine branches tufted with beard moss and fog.
\nTwo luna moths flitting like exotic birds
\ntowards only each other and light, in these
\ntheir final few days, they mate, then starving
\nthey wait, inches apart, on my cabin wall
\nto die, to share fully each pure and burning
\nmoment. They are, like desire itself, born
\nwithout mouths. What, if not this, is love?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Sean Nevin [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Dream,” by Finnish photographer Mikko Lagerstedt (Facebook\/Instagram); one of several in his “Edge” collection.] From whiskey river: The Mockingbird All summer the mockingbird in his pearl-gray coat and his white-windowed wings flies from the hedge to the top of the pine and begins to sing, but it’s neither lilting nor lovely, for he is […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Oliver, Ruefle, Eiseley, et al., connecting with things overhead: 'Sky and I, Sharing'","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,250,5,50,251,4159],"tags":[595,1046,2232,3075,3171,4352,4353,4354,4355,4356],"class_list":{"0":"post-18250","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-art","9":"category-06_writing","10":"category-language-writing_cat","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-essays","13":"tag-mary-oliver","14":"tag-angels","15":"tag-r-d-laing","16":"tag-mary-ruefle","17":"tag-the-sky","18":"tag-mikko-lagerstedt","19":"tag-loren-eisely","20":"tag-sean-nevin","21":"tag-birds","22":"tag-moths","23":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4Km","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18250","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18250"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18250\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18260,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18250\/revisions\/18260"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18250"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18250"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18250"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}