Sometimes I am moved to contemplate the world in poetic terms. Within me. Phrases appear, suddenly, athen (thank God) disappear in a flash.
I really cannot write poetry. Not even haiku. Every poetic thought I ever had looks extraordinarily stupid on paper.
I think it’s because of my upbringing (that’s the excuse, anyway). I left the States to return to Poland when I was 13. We were only beginning to read serious poets in New York and pfft! – I left it all and began the process of deciphering the Polish greats.
You might say my talent for creating verse, in either language, got dumped somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, during one crossing or another.
Reading poems – I go through phases. I remember a Neruda phase. Everything was a Neruda poem. Avocados, lemons, all of it. Man, Neruda wrote about that too! Or Oliver. Such sweet images of nature. And Szymborska, of course. In translation, of all things.
But returning to my first thought here – I do think in poetic phrases in moments of great wonder. For example, looking up at the sky over the fields just outside of Madison this afternoon, I thought – this is it! A poetic moment! Come and gone.
Only the photo remains.