Back, Trees, Silences
Back from our trip where poetry was in the stones, the facades, the window shutters and iron grillwork in the calles of Venice, the stradum of Dubrovnik, the white shiny marble streets of medieval towns on the Adriatic islands of Korkula and Hvar. An essay on Muzak, read in the New Yorker while travelling, talked about its enemy being silence. Then, today, stumbled on this Charles Simic (originally from Belgrade, Yugoslavia) quote:
"Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them. We are always at the beginning, eternal apprentices."
After three weeks away, I return to my writing life con spirito, con brio. The world around me, outside this writing room windows, sings of green, of growing, of spring.
