The Other Bunny

  • Make It New

     
    Make It New
     
     
    Days and months are the wayfarers of measured time, living in an unimaginable reality 
    just as the years that slip by.  For those who have always known of the self-creating stars which
    live drifting with the currents of an everyday truth in which ordinary perceptions are denied,
    or leading a horse by the bridle into old age, overturned, the mind thrust into a channel in which
    each day is an exploration, the wandering itself the formerly unknowable because then unimaginable
    home.
     

    spliced genes
    an unnamed seed quickens
    the groundwork
     
    - Adapted from Oku no Hosomichi by Matsuo Basho and The Carpathians by Janet Frame
  • Writer's Block

    Writer's Block
     
     
    From the blank page of the Unknown Poet, these words echo back in stony rebuke: 
    "Some things are best left unsaid and this, being my last, is one of them."
     
    The reader, taken aback, takes the poet to task. "Again you repeat the irrelevance of words amid the ocean's roar as we navigate the beach's darkness by the light of the stars.  What is the meaning again of this coincidence of place?"
     
    this and that
     
    The Unknown Poet quotes gravely at last:
     
            Voices, voices. Listen my heart, as only saints
    have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them
    clear off the ground. Yet they went on, impossibly,
    kneeling, completely unawares: so intense was
    their listening. Not that you could endure
    the voice of God -far from it! But listen
    to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message
    that forms itself out of silence.
     
    As dawn comes upon the reader the following words come to mind:
     
              It was her voice that made   
    The sky acutest at its vanishing.   
    She measured to the hour its solitude.   
    She was the single artificer of the world
    In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,   
    Whatever self it had, became the self
    That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,   
    As we beheld her striding there alone,
    Knew that there never was a world for her   
    Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
     
    doomed to repeat
     
    "Why?" he wails. "Why must the singing end? What are the order of words that give such flesh to the song?"
     
    this and that
     
     
     
                along the strand 
    crab bubbles
    here and there
     
     
     
    Sources:
    - First Duino Elegy by Rainer Maria Rilke (tr.Albert Ernest Flemming)
    - The Idea of Order at Key West by Wallace Stevens