No posts for a couple of weeks, yours truly having been tasting the aesthetic delights of the Norwegian Fjords. It might have been the work of those omnipresent trolls or the waterfalls or caves that somehow in the darker recesses of my mind suggested the following, or it might have been a combination of all these. Or none. Who knows?
On Acquiring the Optimum Conditions for Creativity.
How wonderful to find a cave,
a shell-like structure, stone and brick,
you curled within, a perfect fit.
The world without, a distant myth.
And then to find as well your own
a muse with whip and concrete mix
to drive you in and seal the door.
How wonderful to kiss the whip,
be blinded to this half-blind world -
and deafened too, though foetus-like,
you listen to your mother's heart.
Your mother's heart lies at the heart
of music, poetry and art.
Its metronomic rhythms bind
the trolls composing in your mind.
How wonderful to feel the walls
cave out before your wall of sound,
to shatter like a singing glass,
or water ricocheted from rock.
How wonderful to be pitched back
into the bosom of the street,
submit again to hearing, sight...
and worship at her beauty feet.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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