The effort of the imagination is to turn the boundary into a horizon because there is no end point for you. The boundary says, Here and no further. The horizon says, Welcome.
—Barry Lopez, Horizons (short film by Jeremy Seifert)
There are so many boundaries in me,
so many limitations, prisons,
places where a line has been drawn—
perhaps by another, perhaps by me.
The lines say, Stop.
The lines say, Don’t be curious.
They say, Make yourself small. Now smaller.
But imagination is the big pink eraser
that rubs out the lines,
smears and disappears them.
Sometimes, it’s more like a tear—
a small rip in the known
that bids me look through the lines
as if peeking through a curtain.
And sometimes the imagination
takes a line and bends it, twists it
like a clown with a balloon,
until what I thought was a boundary
becomes bird, becomes crown, becomes
flower. Or it turns the line perpendicular
so what I thought was a deadline
becomes path. I want to listen
for the voices beyond the boundaries,
want to open to what I can’t yet see.
I want to hear the welcome of the horizon
and, like a bell calling me home, let it lead me.
Posts Tagged ‘imagination’
A Prayer for Imagination
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged boundaries, horizon, imagination on December 30, 2021| 6 Comments »
George of the Jungle
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dad, daughter, imagination, song on March 11, 2021| 2 Comments »
My father sings
and I am again
a girl being bounced
on his lap, wondering
if there really is
a jungle somewhere
where a monkey eats nails,
and why would a monkey do that,
and doesn’t it hurt?
My father is laughing,
his eyes glitter with tropical shine,
and I understand
he is traveling in a world
of imagination
and gave me
an invitation to go with him—
fifty years later,
we are still swinging
through that curious jungle,
singing, wondering
about that crazy monkey,
his strange choices,
blessing these surprising worlds
that bring us
together.
Springing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grass, green, growth, imagination, resilience on May 2, 2020| 6 Comments »
Last summer’s grass still stands in the field,
dry and fringe-like. It shushes against my thighs
as I walk. How is it still upright? After the weight
of last year’s snow? How has it not fallen, decayed?
Though I can break the brittle stems in my fingers,
it bends in the wind, more resilient than I could imagine.
What inside me is dead, yet still standing?
What old thoughts, their seeds long gone,
are filling the fields of imagination?
The new grass already is emerging into spring.
Soft. Deep green. Unable to be bent or broken,
its scent sweet and sharp in the nose.
Let me find in me this freshness, this new growth,
this willingness to push up through what’s dead.
Let me roll in it like a dog, till I come up stained green—
green thoughts. Green words. Green wonder.
Green learning what it is to be green.
Following Mr. Berry’s Instructions
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cottonwood, imagination, poem, poetry, tree on October 22, 2019| 1 Comment »
You have to be able to imagine lives that aren’t yours.
—Wendell Berry
And so today I’m the cottonwood
in the yard, the one we planted twenty years ago,
the one my son used to climb,
the one that we hang bird feeders from, and pinatas,
the one that even now is losing its leaves,
and I imagine standing there year after year,
fall after fall, now after endless now.
What is now for a tree? How different
is now from infinity? I imagine being
my own soaring cathedral, my roots
always thirsting, my wood growing
to seal my wounds, my branches
always chasing the light.
Into the Dark
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, dog, imagination, mother, pet, poem, poetry on May 7, 2018| 3 Comments »
My daughter walks up the drive to meet me.
Mom, she says, I have a pet.
She is dragging an old pump
attached to a long black electrical cord.
Meet Pumpy, she says.
Hello Pumpy, I say. She pulls
the red and black cylinder into her arms.
I am trying to prove to you
that I am ready to be a dog owner, Mom.
I am going to take Pumpy for walks
every night and every morning
and give him a bath in the river. Come.
She puts the pump back on the ground
and yanks it up the drive, calling,
Come boy. Good Pumpy.
When we get to the top of the drive,
she picks up Pumpy to cross the street.
You know, she says, the street
is a dangerous place.
And then we walk up the dirt hillside.
There, she finds an old deer bone
and helps Pumpy to bury it.
Mom, she says, what do you think?
I think my heart is breaking
with the purity of her desire.
I think the evening light
makes everything more beautiful.
I think it is hard to say no
to something our loves really want.
No, I say. We can’t get a dog.
But you will be a great dog owner someday.
She knew this would be the answer,
and says, Come, Pumpy,
there’s more to explore.
And though it’s getting dark,
we walk deeper into the woods.
I Want to Show You Something, He Said, as We Stood in the Library Halls in Boulder, Utah
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gift, imagination, java, poem, poetry, stranger on October 10, 2017| 4 Comments »
for Tomàs
The candle is not there to illuminate itself.
—Jan-Fishan Khan
It will only take five minutes, he said,
and so, though I’d not spoken with him before
and though I was about to teach a class,
I followed him outside the library door
to the dirt lot where his truck was parked
and from the open pick up bed
he pulled with flourish a rolled-up rug
and spread it between the rabbit brush
and milk thistle, then hoisted
two flat wooden seats he’d fashioned
out of pine, arranged them on the rug,
and swung a bench-like table from the bed
and placed it in the center.
And I expected, what, well, not
what happened next. It’s your canoe,
he said, and from his truck he plucked
a long and knobby stick. And here’s your oar,
he offered, with a slight bow of his head.
I took it up and kicked my shoes off, stepped
onto the rug, then leapt up to table top
and began to paddle the air.
Where are we going then, I said,
my eyes on the horizon.
To Java, he said, and I paddled harder,
eager to reach its shores. I’ve always
wanted to go to Java, I said, pulling
through currents of air. And look, he said,
there’s a farmer there on the banks
saying his morning prayers.
And he pulled from the truck a large
straw hat that he set upon his head
and a simple white scarf he let
slip through his fingers in a ritual
of silk. And when my boat came near,
he stepped beside it, met me
with a bowl-shaped bell, and circled
the small canoe, baptizing the air
with its one-note song. I closed my eyes,
and felt the tone open inside me,
and when I let my lids fly up,
he was standing right in front of me
with a vial of dark oil that smelled of vanilla
and evergreen. And he anointed me,
touching the oil to my head with his finger.
I knew I had arrived. I jumped down and hugged
the farmer, then searched the ground
for a smooth white stone to give him in return.
And as I journeyed back to the library,
somehow now only steps away, I took with me
the scent of pine, the smile of the native man,
the joy that comes when all the lines
we thought we knew have been erased,
and our inner map wildly rearranged.
For Reals
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged imaginary friend, imagination, love, poem, poetry, real on September 25, 2014| 2 Comments »
I want to be your imaginary friend,
and no one else will see me when
I come and kiss the back of your neck,
will not notice at all as I whisper
in your ear the things I’m about
to do with you. They might notice
you’re blushing, but they will not
see the way I am smiling at you
now from the doorway and curling
my fingers to say, This meeting is boring,
come play, darling, out in the field
where the autumn sun is warm
and low and the golden grasses
will hide us well so no other eyes
can find our shade. And I will insist
that I am real and ask you to touch
to be sure it is true. And I shall
wear only bliss and sunlight
and you shall wear only me,
and the afternoon will be infinite
as only imaginary things can be.
Beyond the Big Dipper
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged constellations, imagination, poem, poetry on July 30, 2014| 1 Comment »
a c-poem for Lian Canty’s Alphabet Menagerie
Imagine with trillions of stars above
all the constellations yet to find—
maybe a canary in a cage that sings
to a miner across the sky.
And perhaps over there is a cyclone—
see that swirl of stars in a cluster?
To the west there’s a giant carrot
and a lucky four-leaf clover.
With our eyes, we can draw all the lines we want—
we can connect the stars into cactus,
or calla lilies (not lilies at all),
or cupcakes! Or Japanese catfish …
oh, I think that catfish was a bad idea—
he’s causing an earthquake in the sky—
quick, redraw him as a cat
sitting on the lap of the miner’s wife.
Even on nights filled with clouds
we can look up and make believe
that the stars somewhere are wishing on us
to give them stories before we dream.
Games We Play
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged capture, escape, illusion, imagination, mothering, poem, poetry, pretend, prison on October 8, 2012| 2 Comments »
For an hour today, she practices escaping
from the stairs. There is no jail here,
only our pretense of bars. She,
the bank robber. I the police.
I lock her up again with my invisible
jail cell key. Then I swallow the key,
I throw it away, but she always produces another,
an invisible skeleton key she’s been hiding
somewhere around her and she lets
herself out again, then hovers nearby
to be caught. I feign dismay. She’s
escaped, again! And search for her,
looking right through her. Until,
aha! I say, and grab her. She never
struggles much, almost hurls her body
at me to be caught. So similar to
how I want to be held, forever,
I say, and then the next moment
I long for escape. Oh sweet
imagination, how real it all can seem,
like this girl slipping away from the stairs,
saying for the fourteenth time, catch me again.
The New Chapbook is Out!
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book, conversations with a mystic, find holiness in the everyday, imagination, poems, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Rumi, The Miracle Already Happening on December 28, 2011| 2 Comments »
The Miracle Already Happening: Everyday life with Rumi
Poems by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
50 pages
Liquid Light Press, 2011
$12
What would happen if a Sufi mystic showed up in your kitchen? Or at your son’s elementary school choir concert? Or in your garden? In this playful chapbook, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer has poetic conversations with Rumi through his translations by Daniel Ladinsky and Coleman Barks and through her imagination. Whimsical and humble, these are poems of discovery, praise, and unlearning, invitations to find holiness in every moment, every place. Even Walmart.
What people are saying about “The Miracle Already Happening”:
A delightful collection of poems to savor and treasure … a deep oasis for all who seek to experience the sacred in every moment.
—Elizabeth H. Small, editor, Poems of Awakening
A rare treat: a rigorous conversation with the past made fresh by vulnerability, playfulness, humor and knockout surprise. There is so much integrity here, and discipline, and grace. And restraint, and cutting loose all at once. All this in poems that can be surrounded by a great quietness. The sensation can be like listening for birdsong, and having the bird silently and suddenly land on your shoulder. If you don’t fall over, you will shout or laugh.
—Peter Heller, author, Kook, and The Whale Warriors
One of the wonders of recent poetry has been the renewed popularity of the Sufi mystic, Rumi. Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer confirms that great poet’s new life in remarkable poems of her own, conversations with a distant master that make us aware just how near he really is, how helpful in his teaching.
—David Mason, Colorado Poet Laureate, 2010-2014
How to Order:
To order a signed copy: email Rosemerry at wordwoman@mesa.net and include your mailing address and to whom you want your books signed. She will send you an invoice for the book plus shipping.
To order onine: http://liquidlightpress.com/rwt.htm