September 3, 2013

"It's a good metaphor. Go write a poem on it. I haven't got time."

I said, on witnessing this sunrise, just now:

Untitled

That's looking westward, and there is no visible sun in the east. Scientifically, it's just a reflection, but metaphorically, it's gold.

11 comments:

Meade said...

“No one who is old is ever going to be young."
― John Beckstein, West of Eden

Sorry, no time to write a poem
A fractured quote is all I owe 'em.

MadisonMan said...

Beautiful fall morning.

(sigh)

Have fun at school kids!

Ann Althouse said...

It's the first day of classes
I give out an assignment
My husband completes it
With brevity and refinement

lemondog said...

May be not a sunrise.

Could be Dylan's Slow Train Coming

Better get out of the way!!

Big Mike said...

So in Madison the sun comes in the west? Explains a lot about where you live.

Bob Boyd said...

I wait for the day
though its far far away
when the sun comes up in the west
and the ladies love men in shorts the best

mrs. e said...

At the time of your posting
Blinding light
While I come to work, biking.
One hand shielding.
One hand braking...and steering.

Auntie Ann said...

False dawn
Fall dawns
While trees cling to green

JOB said...

Amber Days

Dying summer plays beneath
The morning pines that weep with amber
We won’t see. Boughs swing above
Their shadows and stand for us;
They harden into general metaphors
For life.

Sullen at noon, stolid at night,
That endless rustle of resistance
Among the needles and the boughs
Is owls and wind, or mice and wind,
Or morning pines and everything,
Or evening pines and nothing at all…

Where time molds and measures itself,
Under cover, safe with darkness,
Into hardening blebs and squibs.
These will make beautiful catacombs
For the webbed design of fly's wing,
Patterned gossamer lacing thorax –

These have been rendered immortal.
The veined and tinseled wings infuse
The moment with stained glass intricacy
Imprisoned, they blur with flight –
But is it a trick of the light, a second sun
Detonated in the unrequited West

That in turn sets off a mirage
Against the rising day of insular East
And become a dazzling artifact,
Another bead in nullity’s
Unceasing prayer? What burns through
The dying days of August, plays

Beneath the pines, and lets play out
The things that far-off heaven knows
Of amber? We only know the sun
Can double our preoccupations with hours
And see within its latent light
Twice removed from seasoned journeys,

The senescence of our days.

Clyde said...

Sunrise in the west?
Missile strikes on Syria?
Fools believe their eyes.

Rusty said...

The sun breaks through the morning mist.
Dappled by the leaves of yonder tree.
Marching to the end of my wooden deck.
I take a healthy pee.