Interiors
The history of shadows, a longing
for brightness to bring through your
eyes shapes and their
belongings: our differences, entwined.
It is evening. Wind breathes in the trees and
through your hands at the piano, returning
speech to its origin, clouds, the moon,
burning wood. November, dying.
How often I fail through lack of words.
Beauty in form. Not to create but as in
respiration, to share, to accept and
return without thought. In and out,
the days reciprocate. White, black. Figures
waiting in darkness for light to come bear them.
Another poem from the 80s, “Interiors” made its first appearance here in May 2015.
O at the Edges 
Lovely
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Thank you!
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This feels more like what you do these days, except here you use more punctuation for pauses, rather than letting the line breaks do it for you.
Beauty in form. Not to create but as in
respiration, to share, to accept and
return without thought
feels very much like something you would write now. That use of “respiration” as a mode with which to illustrate commonality has a delicacy, yet force to it, which is akin to breath.
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It’s interesting to read these old pieces and find much in common with today’s writing. Many of the older poems are contrived and don’t work well at all. The impulse may have been there, but the ability to carry through wasn’t sufficiently developed. This one is much closer to today’s concerns.
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i think that is the use of old poems, to comb over them & look for intentions. i need to do that again soon.
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I read about a decade’s pile of old poems a while back, and learned quite a bit about myself. I’d deliberately not written about myself – offered few personal details, etc., – but in doing so, revealed through that avoidance, quite a bit about myself. It was illuminating. And humorous.
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I did something similar until i realized I’d actually done something, & felt removing myself from that would seem forced & slightly odd.
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It’s difficult to escape who and what we are.
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Awesome!!
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Thanks very much.
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This one makes me uncomfortable, in a good way…
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Then I have done my job properly, Anthony. Thank you.
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“Wind breathes in the trees and
through your hands at the piano, returning
speech to its origin, clouds, the moon,
burning wood. November, dying.”
And then you claimed to fail from lack of words!
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Always! The right ones are hard to come by.
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Fav line: “not to create but as in respiration.” Loved it.
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Thank you, Daniel. Much appreciated!
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I always love the poems but I especially the picture of the keys.
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I enjoy matching photos to poems.
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