Posts Tagged ‘blank’

            for Wendy

Tonight, the poet with the tendrilled hair
asks us to fill in the blank.
The most important relationship
you cultivate in your life is with _________.
One person says, Love. Says another, Yourself.
And long after the question is gone
from the air, long after the conversation’s
moved on, I think about ways
to fill it in. With time. Mortality.
Uncertainty. Peace. And ultimately,
with nothing. How beautiful
to let what is blank stay blank,
a space holder for pure potential.
What if our relationship with nothing
is the most important relationship we have?
I notice how she never fills in the blank herself.
Now everything is possible.

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It helps me to think
of the singularity
not as a point per se,
but as a book
that contained
everything that is
and everything
that ever was
and everything
that ever will be—
a book in which
the makings
of spiral galaxies
and nebulae and
triceratops and
and you and ticks
and a bullet and
Google were
all nestled together
in the pages,
and if we could
go back and read
that big bang of a book
I believe we’d find
that in the beginning
was not the word
but a volume
of unfilled folios,
a blank with infinite
potential, an empty
space so generous
that everything
might emerge.
Even planets.
Even fireflies.
Even forgiveness.
Turn the page.
Even peace.

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One Invitation

the new map
life gave me—
a blank page

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What a woman really needs
is a blank sheet of paper,
which takes trees, of course,
softwood coniferous are best—
pines, firs, spruce, hemlock.
Their long fibers produce the strongest paper
able to hold the most difficult words.

And the tree needs sunlight, clean air, water.
And the tree must be cut using a chainsaw,
harvester, feller buncher. Must be moved
with a skidder or a forwarder.
Must be transported to the sawmill on a truck:
So many machines run by so many
human hands attached to human limbs
with human hearts and human hurts
and human hopes.

And of course, the woman
needs a pen for writing on the paper—
the ink no longer coming from soot
but from pigment including a solvent, a binder,
and a plethora of additives
such as chelating and drying agents—
a complex concoction suited to giving clarity
to complex thoughts.

She needs a room. Or a closet. A counter?
Or simply entry to an inner place
where there are no other voices
asking for help or offering help either.
A space where the predominant voice
she hears is her own—or perhaps,
more truly, the voice she is ripening into,
the voice that emerges when she lets the blank page
know more than she does, lets it lead her
on cursive paths that cross themselves often
but move her ever forward.

And then, with that clean sheet full of memories,
that pen with its synthesized balance,
that room with its impossible blessing,
she might at last meet what she really needs most,
that part of herself she will forever
continue to wonder about, that self
that reaches for her, that asks her to wrestle,
invites her to see what else she might find
in all that abundant blank.  

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One Long Story

hovering over

the generous blank

the pen wonders how to improve

on all that potential—

oasis without a trail

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One Silencing

unsure what to say—

letting the blank page

write on me

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Ars Poetica

All these years of wandering,

toward what? On a blank page,

where are the secrets hidden?

How many mysterious paths?

If there is a truth, perhaps it, too, is blank.

If there is way, perhaps it, too, is wandering.

Sometimes I just want the answer.

Always it comes back to this:

An orbit. A spiral. A mobius trip.

A boundary curve where the question

is its own topology, where the question

is its own astonishing arrival.

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the world is new again,

white and blank, a page

waiting for us to write

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In permanent black marker,
no less. But first
she rewrites the question.

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