Good morning! Here’s an original poem for you—I thought it might be fun to practice some of the close reading techniques from yesterday on this (much less challenging) piece. Wishing you a week full of beautiful moments.
Act of Poetry
A pond is like nothing
more than it is like that brimming O
between consonantal banks
a little muddied with spring rains,
and then, a stone sits heavy on the tongue
in just the way it snugs in the hand,
and when the two meet,
there is nothing more like itself
than the hollow that opens briefly
in the water where the stone falls through,
the clearing left by the smack
of being against being, and into
that space where stone and pond
were both and are no longer
there rushes for a moment the void,
whose edges hum with energy
but whose core is a limitless lack
of friction …
then the waters close again over the gap,
about which now it can be said only
that it may indeed have been nothing
or it may have been a fissure
into everything.