These are my poems and, for the most part, my pictures. I am starting to understand that if I wait for my writing to be what I want it to be, I will wait for longer than even poetry could describe. And if I wait until I am deserving to write, then I will never deserve to write. And if I write because I want to do anything except give beauty back to beauty, then my writing won’t mean anything anyway. It is possible that there will be no beauty in the writing, but only in the trying. That would be enough for me.
I was encouraged to upload my writing in this blog by a friend. This friend is a priest whose own writing is quite remarkable. If I’m honest, the project is like wearing a trench coat, the pockets of which are full of small bells. And then trying to walk normally. But silently. On occasion I feel like running pell-mell accompanied by a cacophony of “campanillos”*, as my father used to call them. Other days I could stay very still and stem the movement breathing, for fear of chiming out of tune.
There is a difference between self-reflection and navel-gazing. There’s a goal that makes me remember certain lines from great poets – “I loved enough to see His blood upon the rose”; “Naught contents thee, who content’st not Me”; “Late have I loved Thee”. But I am easily distracted from the goal because I am turbulent, like a child’s plastic windmill in an old person’s garden; distractible, tattered, and spinning like a loon with the breeze. A windmill with a friend, who is a priest, whose own writing is quite remarkable, who walks past occasionally and reminds me what the wind is for.

*campanillos – bell-shaped chime made of copper or bronze

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