My poem “Self-Portrait as Shakuhachi” is live at The Headlight Review. I am grateful to the editors for taking this piece.
O at the Edges
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
My poem “Self-Portrait as Shakuhachi” is live at The Headlight Review. I am grateful to the editors for taking this piece.
O at the Edges 
Love this, the wait flows. Read it standing at the bustop, my life in short form
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Thanks, Dan! The bustop us an ideal place to read a poem like this!
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Maybe the bus will take me to the end of the poem
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Congratulations, Bob.
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Thanks, Ken!
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great work!
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Thank you, Charles.
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no problem!
And by the way, *SIR Charles 😉
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🙂
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Love this, so zenlike – congrats, Bob!
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Thanks, Lynne. That shakuhachi inspired quite a few poems. Never could (still can’t) play it worth a damn. 😄
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I get it – music and musical instruments inspire me but i can’t play any of them 😊
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I can sorta play guitar and mandolin, but not well. But that flute never took hold at all. Still, I had fun attempting to learn.
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Well it sure led to a different kind of music eh – words that vibrate long after they’ve been read/ heard. Your words 😊
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Aw, shucks. 😊
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Congratulations… lovely!
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Thank you, Rajani. Much appreciated.
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Congratulations, Bob! My experience of the poem was the same as Lynne’s, zenlike.
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Thank you, Liz. I think the shakuhachi lends itself to that feeling.
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You’re welcome, Bob.
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Congratulations!
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Thank you, Merril! It never gets old.
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😊
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Gorgeous. We are all permeable, aren’t we?
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Thank you. We are indeed, Jilanne. I feel it more each day.
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“Where … nothing contains us … not even love.”
Another beauty, Bob. Glad to see this published!
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I’d almost forgotten about the poem, and uncovered it almost by accident. So I sent it out. Ha!
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Congratulations again!
Your lines and the possibilities between … “nothing contains us” sorta sums up our humanness. My son turned 45 three years ago today … died the next … life could not contain him; nor does death, as his presence continues to move beyond physical … cool to consider him as flute tone … perhaps we are each unique flute tones. Uncontained yet sensed, ethereal.
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Oh, Jazz. I love the idea of being a unique, but incomplete, ethereal flute tone. Perhaps I’ll be more musical in death than in life. Not a bad thing, I think.
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This is perfect!
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Thank you, Susan.
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