Nature is a Language
There is something stimulating about the experience
of natural light caressing pages of a book read beneath an oak—
you know, leaves flowing in the breeze, parting just enough
for sunlight to flicker through and kiss my forehead, laying prayer.
The book is forgotten now though,
my eyes are drawn towards gleeful birds in the bath—
splashing then rising, wings sweeping loose
as they dart for the shrubs that sit on the hill.
Usually, the brook that runs past the house is dry,
but today, a gentle stream trickles over rocks—
the languishing murmur whispers in my ears.
As Emerson states, Nature is a language.
It Often Happens
that I smell a memory into existence
that I am unaware of having access to previously.
Where was this information stored?
Was it merely the buildup of my brain’s chemical signals,
just neurons lain dormant until strong arousal?
Or, perhaps, does my soul keep a log of every experience?
Maybe it’s both,
maybe it’s neither—
though a part of me always roots for the soul.
Well, memories are simply illusions—
isn’t that strange?
After all, they have no duration,
relating to time as we measure it.
It seems I am down the rabbit hole again,
I know because I follow up with this thought—
is the soul responsible for phenomena of the mind?
Who is to say?
No one ever brings back these crucial answers.
Well, I know that thoughts like these often seem to muddy my day—
so, I’ll end this poem and get on with living.
Intro of Poetics of Space: a Response
Bachelard suggests poetic images
are phenomena of the soul.
According to him,
phenomena of the soul,
which though separate from intellect,
interprets reality.
It seems intellect cannot rescue me.
I stand here along a sun-eaten path
in an orchard littered with apples,
upset at the dearth of each late summer—
a wood-thrush warbles, interrupting
my bleak thoughts as I attempt
to write a requiem for summer.
To Bachelard, daydreams transport the dreamer
to a world that bears the mark of infinity—
though lately, I have not had the luxury
of visiting such a place.
Lately, it seems everything ends in entropy—
excuse the morbidity.
As you know,
speculations always lead
down the rabbit hole.
This thought needs no justification.
I have been hungering for something
to validate this experience.
I can’t help but to think—
why is my head yet to be crowned in laurel?
why is brow not yet wiped by Apollo
like Rimbaud—
as he heard the stream’s languishing murmur?
Am I not worthy of Bachelard’s poetic image?
As I consider this—
I can’t help but to hear the wood-thrush singing
in the same key as my requiem.
Peeking Into the Future
Lately, life finds me incoherent—
I follow this thought with a sigh,
sipping coffee as I gaze out the window.
Mourning doves peck around for seed beneath the feeder.
I rub my eyes hard enough to see phosphenes.
Never am I truly awake
until I leave the house for a while.
However, this lack of sleep
doesn’t disrupt my meditation
on how consciousness and experience
both seem to be narratives continuously writing themselves;
lately, pages are sticking, and my pen is low on ink.
I look to the feeder—
the birds have all gone.
I hear the jingling of tags on a collar,
and I turn, seeing Molly
roll on the tattered cloth
that used to be a stuffed duck.
I swear I see a grin spread,
and weight falls from my mind
at the simple view of her in bliss.
It is easy to say how living is easier
when experienced
one focal moment at a time,
but adhering to this principle
is somethin else entirely.
Never does rapture linger long—
I am unable to stop sadness flooding
to ruin this moment
as I lean down,
cradling Molly’s head,
massaging her ears.
Even though I know better—
I peek into the near and barren future,
left worried, as I resent the grey
as it spreads across her delicate face.
My name is Lucas Brown. I am currently finishing my degree in Speech and Hearing Sciences at Edinboro University of Pennsylvania. I am also working towards a degree in English. My poems aim to convey a stream of consciousness, as well as capture memories and experiences. Poetry has been my passion ever since I first started writing. My work has been published by Chimera Art and Literary Journal. It has also been featured on 2GirlsOneBench Podcast.
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