Tag Archives: New Mexico

Virtual Blog Tour and the Sometimes Perhaps

Welcome. Thank you for following the thread that brought you here.

The notion of a virtual blog tour landed here upon being sparked by my dear friend and colleague Daniel Ari, who made the initial suggestion that I might like to participate in such a tour, following his blog tour post (a poet friend and colleague had invited him.) I felt the spark land and since then the question has been did the spark become an ember and did the ember survive? Or perhaps another question might be was it a virtual spark and does it, now, have what it takes to light this contemplative, virtual fire? Perhaps. Shall we see?

What is not a perhaps is the whole-hearted conspirator I find in Daniel Ari, the person, being, and creator afire. I invite you to visit his blog Fights With Poems, as long as you have more than a moment to explore and drop in. Daniel’s projects are a many (writing, publishing, teaching, collective blogging and more), his stretch is broader than most and not confined by his idea of himself, if I can say so. One project of note is his forthcoming book, One Way to Ask, a book of querons, a poetry form of Daniel’s originality, inspiration, and making. For this book, he is collaborating on many levels with artists and other co-conspirators, which has Daniel’s signature of ever-ready-to-remake-oneself with each sitting, writing, and re-versing. It has been my honor and stimulation both to be included in amongst the co-conspirators included in this book. I look forward to the publication of One Way to Ask. 

And thank you, Daniel, for inviting me once again into territory that I may not otherwise find myself in if it weren’t for you and our connection! (Another such invitation from Daniel brought numerous years of my participation in his collective blog, IMUNURI. Currently Daniel has 131 submissions there, I have 57, and ten other poets have submitted their works/poems there, as well.)

 

A photographic interlude as the blog tour continues…

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The Virtual Blog Tour comes with these party-c-pant questions (putting on these party pants is one way to participate!)

1) What am I working on?

I don’t know what I am working on until I am working on it. Even then, while I am “working on” something, it is more precisely working me or opening out through me or pondering within this persona/non-persona. It doesn’t seem to be my way or mode (at this time) to know what I am working on. What does come, at times, is some kind of knowing being expressed through words on paper or words being typed on a computer or iPod screen. Question #4 seems to be creeping into #1.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Similarly, I am not aware of my poetry and writing being of a specific genre type. If you know otherwise, please let me know! Ha! What comes through as poetry seems to be unique to itself. I will say something that does come to say around this question: the poetry I write comes from or via direct experiencing, an internal voicing or somatic experiencing as the words present themselves. I would not say that I don’t think about what I write, but something like that. It seems to me that I am ready when something seems to come through and have easiness of expression as words in some kind of structure close to what we call a poem. Poems as awareness as felt sense, perhaps.

3) Why do I write what I do?

“Why do I do what I do?” as a question seems to come out of some unseen or unconscious motivation to seek security (or need to know) when security of that kind is simply non-essential. So, for me, there is not an need to answer such a question. The poems ponder enough on their own and simply get written (or not.)

4) How does my writing process work?

There are tastes of this question in the previous answers 1, 2, and 3. What else I might share here is that there is some kind of seeding and then a gestation period and then, perhaps, a kind of birthing in the writing. The writing usually takes my full attention and is something that moves through and I respond in the now. Often there is the anticipation of something before it finds its form as words on paper, mostly as poetry, sometimes as contemplative writing in prose, sometimes in photography or a combination of the aforementioned.

The writing is a kind of direct experience, as in I am present for something as it is felt and expresses as words. The photography, too, is a kind of calling or marking of direct experience and has a numinous quality within it. What gets expressed, conveyed, felt, or sensed through the sharing of these, I also do not know what that might be. It is like breathing for me. Or at least that is how it comes today to write about such things.

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Monsoon skies in El Rito north of Questa, New Mexico ~ July 2014

And finally, the blog tour may continue in a similar fashion to above, if I have other bloggers to invite for you to check out with blog tour posts of their own. However, I found that I did not have currently active bloggers to invite!  So I invited both a poet/artist and a songwriter/musician/poet to start their own blogs such that they could be included with accolades in this Virtual Blog Tour.

Perhaps they will do just that and at least one new blogger will be featured here in short time. I will update this entry with their URL and some of what inspired me to invite them to participate. Perhaps.

 

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3 poems from northern New Mexico

arriving with the full moon ~ July 10, 11 2014

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while camping near the Kagyu Mila Guru Stupa, north of Questa, NM

1. What Pause

We have our things

Even if we have very little

or essentially nothing

Not threadbare are any of us

And some semblance of things

is brought together, even if

just to drink this or eat that

 

We can sit on the ground

The body will sleep when it comes time

the preoccupation of belongings

is such a high order in our lives

that it is nearly invisible

 

I pause to think, as if thinking is

the way, how to live

on the land with no amenities

 

It seems preposterous

Just sit on the ground?

Rest under a tree?

Wait until batteries run out

and then be silent?

 

As if Silence was not there

all along

Everything we eat, drink, sleep

is there in the Silence

 

Everything we are

is that Silence

 

2. Doorway: Empty As

We love an entry into.

Leave an opening

And something will move thru

Even if just pretend.

So when we really go thru

What then?

 

Is there no going back?

We’ve moved between

And are never the same.

Something has passed

From here to there

And back again is only onward.

 

We pine for what was

Looking thru What Is

Trying to see something

Other than

What simply is, Just This.

 

And pining, things just look the same

But never are

Or are so inextricably

The same it would take

The widest open eyes

To see This

And not see something else.

 

Perhaps it is the putting aside

Of what the eyes see

And letting things be

As empty as they are

Each thing a doorway

To itself

Nothing more, nothing less.

 

In that entry

We move as all direction

Within and without

Leaving nothing aside

Going nowhere but everywhere

Without departure.

 

And the openings

Await nonetheless

Waiting as the perceivable

In the perceiving

As they are

As they are.

 

3. Do and Not Do

When there is nothing to do

Something seems to be found to do

It’s a circus we didn’t even

realize we had tickets for

and have been going to

all so regularly

 

It looks like life

And yet life isn’t doing

Life just happens

All on its own

No tickets necessary!

There is no grand entry, no backstage

 

Just ask the wind

the thunder

the rain

None of these need permission

And cannot be kept

Under lock and key

 

There is no one to pay

Even if that makes us

Feel more real somehow

 

We have so many wallets

all around and everywhere

Most of them hidden away

(what are we protecting, really?)

But there they are

What good would it be

if we didn’t find ways to fill them?

 

Is it a question of good?

Or is it a question of a day

yet upon us when all

bartering ceases

 

And something yet known,

however already conceived,

bursts forth taking us

as we are

as our most direct

Unfettered, alive beyond word

 

Nothing need be done

The question of do and not do

Too will cease

Praise to Thickets Amongst Us

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Thicket along the watercourse; San Cristobal, NM

Down by the thickets of willows making their place where waters sometimes run (as a trickle or more.) This wayside is where the heart has its home, the air naturally cooling in this weave on a very hot day.

I’ve been here “on the property” for a little over two weeks but clearly haven’t arrived until now. This is my first day here in the grasses, on their way to tall, the filtered light in nuances more than I can count, the old bowing willow branches remind me of the ever present inspiration to the eye of an artist, perhaps the other way around. To draw this place or just to be and see and be touched by this wild order? The kind of beauty that can go so easily unnoticed, much less the amazing feat of interspecies communing, even those without voices, but textures, color, integrity take me over. The air is not the only element that is renewed here.

I want to say “on the other hand…” as I contemplate the contrast of the places that have been denuded (a stone’s throw from here) or stripped of their natural dignity by the use or appropriation for something we call “living our lives.” What I love about this wilder place by the draw behind the house is that life is already living here fully and I simply join in. This grand beingness of it all!

It’s not that this place is any better than someplace else, it’s just that it is THIS place and can be no other place! And how so very different it feels here than just fifty or a hundred yards away. What a gift this place speaks of my own nature, which sometimes seems much less human than just Being alive, sentience itself, able to be touched, penetrated by the exquisite weave of interpenetrating life, of consciousness. The magpies have their squawk and the mourning doves their cooing calls. The breeze, now at my back, stirs the green life alive into motion and sound. Is it the motion of things that we hear or is it something just a bit more illusive than that?

This up close visitation to the green of the thicket next to the seeping wallow brings me right to the taste of my own heart. They are not like the wider vistas of mountains in the distance with fields of sagebrush laying out before them, not like the open, open skies with all matter of clouds and blue in their ever-changing atmosphere-scape. Here things crowd in without any feeling of density or overbearingness. Here is intimacy, did I say that already, of brush and bower, of grass and twig, of every kind of insect and butterfly with the light ever shifting amongst it all. I become part of a nourishment cycle; bathing in spirit of thicket and this very place.