Day 16 :: 30 Poems in 30 Days April 2016

To Say, April 16, 2016, 30 Poems in 30 Days

To Say, April 16, 2016, 30 Poems in 30 Days

To Say, April 16, 2016
Today’s poem is about those moments, like today, when I don’t know what to say, when I think I have nothing to say. In writing, there is a practice to overcome this obstacle. It is to write anything without the need to make sense or reason. Its the practice of movement. Many times it has unlocked a direction in my own writing. During this practice, it sometimes comes down to me simply saying that I don’t know what to say.

I find this poem beautiful because this is what I am writing but the black mark implies there is something to say. It has not been extrapolated or articulated just yet and by the end of the poem, although unreadable, it does say something.

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One Response to Day 16 :: 30 Poems in 30 Days April 2016

  1. Michiel Carlier says:

    P30X Day 16

    When I reach a big open field, I am amazed at what I see. In the middle of the field there is a wonderful tree. For a moment I stand still. This tree must have been standing here for decades. Somehow it was never used for its wood, and men have left it to grow, untouched by their saws and axes. There, it has continued to grow all its life, and after many, many decades of living and growing, I am lucky enough to see it. Standing there in awe, I realize this would be a great spot for setting up camp for the night.
    It’s a beautiful summer evening. Almost no wind can be seen or felt. I hear crickets chirping and birds’ evening songs in the surrounding woods. The big tree that I’m lying under stands very still. Its leaves, tired of the sun they had all day, slowly come to a rest. I’m on my back, comfortably lying on the grass, peaceful and thankful of this wonderful evening, tired of having hiked all day. Looking at this big beautiful tree above me, contrasted by the evening sky with its warm colors, I notice something black in the tree, and my curiosity awakens.
    When I stand up to look at it from closer by and walk around it to see it from different angles, I see it’s a piece of art hanging from one of the big limbs of the tree. A small cable holds it up there, just out of reach but low enough to notice it easily. I see that it’s a kinetic mobile. When I shift my focus, I can make up words. This mobile represents a longer written text! I am amazed. This miracle of a tree holds an even greater secret. In my minds eye I see the lines and couplets of this piece of art slowly moving and turning in the wind all day. Now, they hang still and seem to join nature in getting ready for the night.
    I make a mental note to return here tomorrow morning and read it, because I can’t make up what it says by the evening light. Lying down again, I look at this mysterious mobile again. It is hanging exactly above me, and I wonder who made it. I notice how the lines of the text ended up hanging exactly in line, one above the other. There I lay, wondering why the words of this poem seem to return to their flat position when the wind, the sun and the tree leave them at rest. The artist who designed this wonderful mobile must have wanted it to return to its paper position when asleep, its words silent and its moving parts dormant. The artist must have been close to nature, because she created a mobile that closes and opens like a book, following day’s and night’s rhythm.
    In the morning, I make myself ready for a full day of hiking. I make a hot coffee to go with a small breakfast. While sitting on a log, just in front of my tent, I remember the black mobile when I take a sip of my coffee. This mobile, I realize, has been visiting me in my dreams last night.
    With the first sunlight entering the field, I think back of my dream and then it slowly returns to memory. I am being reminded more of feelings than of a dream’s story. I feel happiness, joy, laughter, the feeling of belonging. I feel I am part of a creative group of people. What and how this group creates is up and above normal levels of art-making. I feel it’s an honor to be there. I feel privileged and very happy. In my dream, there is one person in this group that attracts my attention. She is exceptionally beautiful. She has long, red hair and she wears the most original earrings and clothes. She seems to live life with passion, and at the same time radiates a calm that I feel attracted to and familiar with. She is an artist in the true sense of the word, with her heart and soul. Using a typing machine, she is writing what seems to be a poem. Then, I see the hands of a blacksmith. I smell fire, smoke, steel, sand and sweat. I feel I am in the presence of greatness.
    When the light of the sun reaches me and my thoughts return to my making ready for the day, the sound of a small hammer on a little piece of steel still echoes in my mind. While I pack up my stuff, I get the feeling this recondite mobile holds more to it than meets the eye. Clearly, this must be a piece of art that an unconscious part of my brain connected to last night. I feel thankful to have noticed it last evening.
    I feel rested, energetic and my feet seem to wake up with a vibrant sensation of their own. They seem to realize what’s out there for them to be getting in touch with again: earth, dust and warm rocks. With a grateful thought towards the lightness of my pack, I sling it on my back and head towards the tree. The excitement to be seeing this mobile again, and finally being able to read what it says, becomes so intense that I forget to focus on where I place my feet.
    I am struck by its beauty. With the little black words returning the first rays of sun into the clear morning, it seems to greet me with pleasure and delight. There is a small gust of wind that comes from over the field and for a moment I stand nailed to the ground. The movements this mobile displays are so dynamic and peaceful, that my mind seems to go into meditation mode just by looking at it.
    I didn’t realize mobiles like these existed. All its sentences, I see now, are inter-connected with thin steel wires that seem to become invisible. They direct my attention towards the moving words and sentences, that look like they are the result of a typewriter’s letter pressing. In my mind I hear the typical ticking sound of a typewriter. I get the image of a woman’s hands, pressing the keys of a manual typewriter. On her one hand, I notice a small ring around her thumb. I hear a cat’s meow, voices and laughter and the sound of a typewriters bell.
    My right foot tells me that it is the object of an ant’s discovery. I shake it off and start heading towards the trail. Today is going to be a great day.


    Agnes Obel Tokka