Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Fumbling Hands

213/ or unbuttoning a shirt, slipping off old shoes, even this flashes back to the first transforming kiss in the dark, fumbling hands —

On a subject unrelated: We received word that Brendan’s birth-mother passed away in February. She was in a hotel— and the maid found her body collapsed on the floor.

Ricky is taking the news rather hard. He was working a Sunday conference when he answered the phone… How else can one react? Knowing she was only a girl, just over nineteen, and that her life filled itself with so much tragedy. On a slight level, she was a stranger, an unknowable child. But on a higher level, she gave birth to our son, our child. She selected us to take care of her offspring.

Need to build a poem out of this— a resolution needs to be reached. Daily stanzas constructed toward the circumstances surrounding her life.

What metaphor to use? A telling of beads? A laying on of hands? Or is this a scene which a tarot deck explains the unfolding of a life?

Ironic connection, the image bridging: hands fumbling into prayer, from pockets to prayer— to steal outright from the above poem and the earlier tanka "Hands Fumbling"— memory as prayer as consolation—

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