“In the beginning there was the darkness”, John O’ Donohue says, and it remains at the center of all things. The way, down, deepest parts of our hearts, the deepest parts of ourselves, knows the texture of the dark better than anything else. It is the place from which all possibility emerges. From where everything comes, and to where everything returns to again and again and again.
It reminded me of that, as well. There were, in fact, a few poems I studied when I was revising this one. Like all poems, it just kinda came out while I was trying to process an experience (literally getting lost in the woods overnight recently, wandering in the dark without a light for fifteen hours and fifty miles of walking). But as it progressed, I kept chiseling it, cutting down the word count, working with the material to see if I could get more out of less. I looked at Frost's poem and how each word was chosen with great care. I also studied David Whyte's "Santiago" poem which has a somewhat similar cadence. Both poems about roads and life and living out in the great unknown. Thank you for the kind words, Anfernee.
Thanks Jeff for sharing this. For myself as a writer on substack/ independent musician & filmmaker there’s a lot that isn’t paved. Feeling lost is a common occurrence yet one that I’m more familiar with.
Especially resonate with the thumping of your heart being the loudest out of everything.
Great metaphors. I often use trail cutter to refer to myself as someone who has successfully coloured outside the known map lines of the undiscovered countries. One of my intergenerational gifts coming from a long line of seafaring explorers. My Dad taught me, and I still have the compass he taught me with, along with the secret languages that nature provides along the trait, which are quite different from hallway intelligence. The culture teaches us that.
At the turn of the century I thought I had taken a wrong turn having changed my vocation. From this change going from top of my field to beginning again, I learned patience, as ten years later I turned to see many following in my tentative trajectory, my trail thru an unknown wilderness.
Wow. It happened to me hiking on the Isle of Skye, I was lost for hours and learned the true meaning of, “Don’t like the weather wait a minute”
But another lesson of my fathers saved me, as I was without gis compass. One of the wilderness trail lessons he taught is the marks you leave; the language of rocks and piles, that served walking humans before GPS or compasses.
Cairns. Piles of rocks visible from hilltop to hilltop. They were everywhere and once I deciphered their symbolism, they directed me back to civilization.
(I’ve been massively sick with the flu the last 2 1/2 weeks and prior to that, down with a virus since the day before Thanksgiving and still trying to recover my energy from that when I got sick with the flu. Nearly two months and counting of nonstop forced rest. I can relate with this poem a little too well, but it was really moving for me).
Feel better soon, Cynthia. I'm sorry to hear you're in the midst of the darkness. One "step" forward. There is comfort in the moving forward, even when there is no actual movement. Only forward.
“In the beginning there was the darkness”, John O’ Donohue says, and it remains at the center of all things. The way, down, deepest parts of our hearts, the deepest parts of ourselves, knows the texture of the dark better than anything else. It is the place from which all possibility emerges. From where everything comes, and to where everything returns to again and again and again.
Man. So well said, Duane, and such beautiful language. Thank you.
Thank you for teh continued inspiration! I've been thoroughly enjoying your poetry. It stirs something so visceral in me. Thank you again!
The darkness from which we emerge. The womb.
Exactly!
Beautiful poem. "Only feet can carry you now."
I liked that line, too, Mo. Thank you!
This is beautiful, Jeff.
Thank you, Michael. That is high praise, indeed.
Really enjoyed the audio version. I felt transported to the forest, like I was in a guided meditation. Thank you Jeff.
Although a different tone, this reminded me of The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. (one of my fave poems)
It reminded me of that, as well. There were, in fact, a few poems I studied when I was revising this one. Like all poems, it just kinda came out while I was trying to process an experience (literally getting lost in the woods overnight recently, wandering in the dark without a light for fifteen hours and fifty miles of walking). But as it progressed, I kept chiseling it, cutting down the word count, working with the material to see if I could get more out of less. I looked at Frost's poem and how each word was chosen with great care. I also studied David Whyte's "Santiago" poem which has a somewhat similar cadence. Both poems about roads and life and living out in the great unknown. Thank you for the kind words, Anfernee.
Beautiful
Thank you. :)
Thanks Jeff for sharing this. For myself as a writer on substack/ independent musician & filmmaker there’s a lot that isn’t paved. Feeling lost is a common occurrence yet one that I’m more familiar with.
Especially resonate with the thumping of your heart being the loudest out of everything.
Mmm. Thank you for sharing, Eviana.
Beautiful
Love it Jeff! Lost. Echoes of the wonderful David Wagoner poem. Poetry is medicine. The for-rest is is the therapy. Bless you. 🙏❤️
Oh, I don't know that one. Just searched it and found this: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=31968
Absolutely beautiful. Thank you for sharing, Jamie.
I loved listening to you read this poem and how beautifully you ended it.
Thank you, Iviana. It is so hard to end a poem. I went back and forth on how to conclude this one. Glad you liked it.
Well I must say, you did well!
"...lie down in black grass..." gave me the shivers.
So tempting sometimes, but the sun always rises the next day.
Thanks for reading this.
That is a smart detail you caught, Susan. Thank you for the reminder.
Great metaphors. I often use trail cutter to refer to myself as someone who has successfully coloured outside the known map lines of the undiscovered countries. One of my intergenerational gifts coming from a long line of seafaring explorers. My Dad taught me, and I still have the compass he taught me with, along with the secret languages that nature provides along the trait, which are quite different from hallway intelligence. The culture teaches us that.
At the turn of the century I thought I had taken a wrong turn having changed my vocation. From this change going from top of my field to beginning again, I learned patience, as ten years later I turned to see many following in my tentative trajectory, my trail thru an unknown wilderness.
Thank you for reminding me.
Also, not a metaphor. Literally got lost in the woods, and this was how I got home. ;)
Wow. It happened to me hiking on the Isle of Skye, I was lost for hours and learned the true meaning of, “Don’t like the weather wait a minute”
But another lesson of my fathers saved me, as I was without gis compass. One of the wilderness trail lessons he taught is the marks you leave; the language of rocks and piles, that served walking humans before GPS or compasses.
Cairns. Piles of rocks visible from hilltop to hilltop. They were everywhere and once I deciphered their symbolism, they directed me back to civilization.
A lesson in existential wayfinding.
Trust.
You're welcome, and what a lovely heirloom to reveice. A real compass from a line of seafarers. So cool. :)
I love this so much. Thank you. 🙏😍🥹
(I’ve been massively sick with the flu the last 2 1/2 weeks and prior to that, down with a virus since the day before Thanksgiving and still trying to recover my energy from that when I got sick with the flu. Nearly two months and counting of nonstop forced rest. I can relate with this poem a little too well, but it was really moving for me).
Feel better soon, Cynthia. I'm sorry to hear you're in the midst of the darkness. One "step" forward. There is comfort in the moving forward, even when there is no actual movement. Only forward.
Another nice poem. I like And when you reach for invisible hands
grasping for salvation, you will find those same fingers pointing
to the only one who could ever bring you home.
Great piece!