Nights reading Bly and not writing much

Today, I started reading some of Robert Bly's prose-poetics collected in: What have I ever lost by dying?The title originates from a Rumi quote (adapted by Bly) and the works inside are beautiful interactions with natural things. He has an elegant simplicity in his writing that is refreshing. I've been reading Elizabeth Bishop lately, and she tends to be deliberately ambiguous AND hesitant. Like she's putting on a shadow show behind a curtain with a weak light.

In contrast, Bly's easy naturalistic writing doesn't create a war within me as I claw at the words to understand them. (I love doing that, don't get me wrong - sometimes it's nice when poetry doesn't require such a commitment)

I love monday nights. First: it means that monday is finished, which is always a bit of a relief. Second: monday nights are often quiet nights where I have the opportunity for reading, playing guitar, writing, and avoiding electronic devices for the most part. I know some people who crave the simplicity of screens after a long day of work. Not me. After spending a full day of work at the computer (sorta. I do like to work on paper, even for coding), I eschew screens if at all possible.

Since I already spent a good portion of today editing, journaling, and discussing writing, I'm not particularly exciting tonight. Apologies.

So, to console your weeping eyes, here's possibly my favorite ee cummings poem, posted for the n-billionth: (it's the last stanza that breaks my heart)

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands 

E. E. Cummings