Onward We Go

And so, the creative season stretches out before me, mysterious, dream-like, just waiting for me to shape its imagery into metaphor and its meanings into poems. I also find myself in search of a new project.

If only such internal shaping of this world could smoothly translate into the external shaping of this world, the immediate creation of certitude, peace, help for pain (see Matthew Arnold's poem "Dover Beach" for the context of that allusion). Alas, I am not even certain any more that there is an external world until I at some point during the day turn on the television to see the same talking heads talking the same foolishness.

If it were all poetry, I guess, poetry wouldn't matter so much. We live by paradox. We figure it out as we go along. We figure out what to keep, what to treasure, and what to remember only so as not to repeat. Onward we go, into the creative season.