As I sit in our outdoor living room it is a cool 78 degrees with a slight breeze. I am torn between the need to journal and touch base with the process of life and the idea that what I am going through is much to complex to even begin to describe. That is the lot of the poet and blogger—what can really be known of this life that we are a part of and how can one even begin to make a dent into the fabric of understanding it on the cosmic level.
I feel a pull to create something new so that you will not be disappointed when you click the link to see if any progress has been made from my last post. I also am aware that time is passing and that I am at my best when images and words are flowing through my fingers and onto a page or computer screen.
In reality there is really much too much happening to even begin to tell the story of it. Each passing day adds a color here or a sentence there that when taken as a whole is quite significant and well worth waiting for—a good stew is allowed to simmer for a while before it is served up allowing all the different flavors to mingle and grow comfortable with each other to our mutual benefit.
It is twenty to eight as I type: there are one or two cicada’s beginning to make their evening song—by ten there will be hundreds and it will be virtually impossible to distinguish one from all the others. It is like going to see the symphony—as we sit in the audience we watch as each player comes to the stage with their instrument and find their place. First violin and second trumpet and so on down the line. They place their music on the stand and eventually begin to warm up until all are on stage and the concert master gives the signal to produce that one note that everyone will tune to. After this the conductor comes to the podium and brings everyone to attention and the musical program begins.
Last night as I sat in the very same place I realized that there were no words in my vocabulary to describe the song of the katydid or cicada. Their voice or song is a rapid click, click, click or a chica-chica-chic and sounds sort of ratchet like winding an old clock with a buzz/buzz/buzz and every other note a tone above or below the one before it. One beat and and half and then a rapid eight or sixteenth note run that starts on your left and fades to your right—the perfect surround sound experience.
Here is what I wrote then:
As dusk surrounds me
I have to wonder what it is
I am really seeing
As I look through eyes
Looking through trees leaves
into grey sky.
A stream of air moves the leaves
at the top of the trees
but leaves those lower branches
There is a liquidness to the air tonight
as if there is a substance—a depth
of surface—thick and thin
at the same time.
What lies in this space between
You and me—what realities
are formed by that
Oxygen molecules dancing
off one another—yet the air is still now—waiting
for a hand to reach down from the heavens
and give this substance
a push in my direction.
The cicada’s, like clockwork
grow louder as the day turns to night—one
voice here and another there—then a
symphony or cacaphony of buzzing
and humming and purring—motorlike
in its’ harmony—turn the key
and the engine fires.
Chicka, chicka, chicka
a certain fast ratchet—slow buzz-buzz-buzz
a music that has no nationality—it is ethnic
yet not refined—simple folk music
but an orchestra sized sound mixing gently
with a late August evening.
It really doesn’t get any better than this!