Doldrum Driftings

     On the general notion that it's better to write something than nothing, and since I certainly am writing nothing, I thought I would start a new blog and write something.  No rules, whatever matters to me at the moment.  More accurately, whatever might be drifting through my mind at the moment.  Anything, just so I put down words.

H'mmn, seems in this new dash top I can't place the picture where I want.  --Well, there it did move off to the left.  Fine.  At the top center of my keyboard is a mouse --Office Girl-- and on my right forearm --Pixie.  These are my assistants in all my labors.  --Now to post, just to see if it works.  Then have to go gather around a bonfire and latter will post

more.

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Monday, 11th.

     I simply have no inclination to chat.  Think I'll dump some poems:

               I had hopped for a rounding,

               Past brought Present; passing.

               It may not be.

               If there's no front to life,

               does life just bumble out its end?

               Waste?

               If there's no front,

               was ever there a middle?

               If no circle,

               is even there a line?

               "Whose name was writ

                      on water."

             At Chantilly Wood so many died;
             Out of the trenches, forward, dead.
             They had to do it --dead.
             I'll have to face her
               --Soon or late--
             Out of the trenches--
             Something's gotta give.

(Actually, the Battle of Chantilly was a Civil War engagement, fought in a thick wood amid a thunderstorm.  I  have in mind instead a First World War battle, but can't come up with the right name.) (Could go with Passchendaele, pronouncing it with four syllables: Pass' chen dae le'; many battles in mud and trenches.)

            An arid time, this time of late,

            And people in my woods.
            No loneliness, no peace.
            So sharp!
            I don't know them,
            And don't want to.

               After fifty years,
            How real is feeling?

            If feeling is response,
            If after fifty years
            that thing responded to
            Has changed,
            Is feeling real though
            Memory be exact?

            In what's past what's real?

            To say: "Nothing;
            Now is Now,"
            May be true but yet
            Not right nor real.
              Something...yet...is real.

            It appears there'll be no circle
            Thus no line;
            Ill-spent energy, a lifetime.
            No pieces, dashes, dots,
            Vapor.
            Nothing can be made of vapor,
            Only fantasy...
            I could suppose that could be true.
            Truly there is fantasy.

     Not sure why I write these things, except that I don't really write them; they come to mind and I write them down.  It's always the first line that comes first.  Sometimes I immediately know I have a poem, though I don't yet know what it is; sometimes it's only that first line, but the rest of the poem comes over several minutes as I walk.  It seems very similar to composing a tune, except that the material is verbaly conceptual; and as with a tune, what's put down is "true" to the emotions of the moment.  That's the first demand.  I would prefer of course, that those emotions be fully true perceptions... but I'm not always certain.  --Having a lot of trouble with font size and spacing.