Writing on the Sun
Poets live in a perpetual state of wonder and wander. They are nomads yearning to package a thought or feeling or event in verse, to save it, to relive it, to share it.
We are really just word photographers. Some say word painters.
The title of this blog comes from Willa Cather’s novel, My Antoniá. On page 183 she describes a farm plow on a hill during the sunset:
“The sun was sinking just behind it. Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, it stood out against the sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the disk, the handles, the tongue, the share, black against the molten red. There it was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun.”
To me, that describes a poem. It is just like the outline an object creates when it hugs the sun. For only a moment you can see a black image, like the flash of a camera, it is there but for a moment.
Poets capture that scene with words.
I want to share some of my fresh poems and some rusting poems–a few have ribbons hanging on them, a medal or two perhaps but most are just for wondering about or wandering about.
I welcome you to my home, to settle into a comfy chair with a cup of coffee, and slip inside a poem or two, if only for a moment.
If you decide to share a poem, please give credit to the proper author.