On a carpet of grass,
the legs
of my table, sturdy trunks.
Elephant legs of tree.
The writing surface,
moistened birthing earth.
I write with
my pulsing index finger.
I feel
me rooting
through the floor.
The walls of the writing
room become opaque.
Warm natural light
swims into
the place.
I look
at what I’ve written.
I love it
but do not understand.
I feel a
satisfaction as it settles,
disappearing
back into the underworld
where it is
an unborn baby,
at home and understood.
Big Ape Diary 
If writing could take me there, I’d embrace silence.
Ach its all silence, Mark. And the writing’s just noiseless scratching.
I love this! And your response to Mark. Thanks for bringing voiceless to a voiceless knowing.
I love this! And your response to Mark. I meant thanks for bringing “voice” to a voiceless knowing. 🙂
It’s a bloody struggle Jeanie, trying to put into words the essentially wordless!
I’m afraid I’m lost. Tream? dream?
Satisfaction when something half -formed sinks into oblivion?
In the sure knowledge it will redurface and give you another chance?
Maybe that is where we differ 🙂
So sorry: wish wordpress did a preview. I try. Honestly.
“re-surface” of course.
Did I imply half-formed? I thought more, loving but not understanding. A recognition of something that exists beyond language, and like the after feel of a numinous experience the grace of having experienced a revelation…a knowledge of having given words to the wordless… Ach look what you’ve done, making me go all mystical 🙂
Nothing wrong with a magical mystery tour, especially when you’re the guide, Brian!
There’s something sometimes in what we don’t say. And this isn’t just about scratching that itch on paper with your pen Brian, really? You had an epiphany in the key of silence major? Leave it at that 😉
First about the typos: durface sounds like someone’s expression when they are embarrassed. I think you should OWN that word in another poem. It’s an unintended small miracle.
Love the idea of sinking back into the womb of this earth, this reality, of surfacing when it’s time. Haven’t read you in a long while, Brian. Peace, Amy
nice…i like how you give it life but then find satisfaction as well in letting it go back down into the ground unborn…..
I’ll have a pint of what he’s having 😉
I look
at what I’ve written.
I love it
but do not understand.
If that doesn’t happen everytime I write, I am obviously doing something wrong.
Could be single Malt 🙂
Words do seem to arrive and depart to and from some magical, mysterious place. It disturbs me when the words appear, but I don’t have the time or the implement to record them. There is a relationship between “understood” and “not understand” that I felt you could have teased out a little more. Nice. Thanks.
This
“I look
at what I’ve written.
I love it
but do not understand.”
is the genesis of great art. The whole poem, esp the ending is wonderful.
I so often find, to do my best writing, I first go to my favorite places, where they find their way onto the page as if by magic~peace, Jason
A superb write and I agree that the ending is wonderful, better than wonderful.
Anna :o]
Sometimes words are hypnotic and the understanding that takes place is not of a rational form, but an intuitive kind.