What do I know that is true?
It's late. My body thinks it's even later, tired after travelling yesterday and busyness today and this evening.
Liz asked what do we know that is true, and I wanted to respond, and began to write, and I realised that I know these things (above) are true. Right now. I know I'd prefer to trust than not; that I'd rather someone wrote to praise my son for his qualities than to berate him for his faults.
I know that Poetry does make things happen, within me... that the right poem at the right time can crack the heart open and allow pain to flow out.
These words, (I heard them in the Slovene first, and found my face was wet with tears before the translator had even begun to read his version) opened up my heart:
...My mother is sleeping, white in the whiteness, a white face
...with white wrinkles, white with softness. White time shreds
...into white flakes. The moment swells with whiteness. The
...voice falls, falls away into silence....
..................Barbara Korun, translated by Theo Dorgan
So I know this poem is true, that so many poems are true. I know that October is a time of special beauty, with the magical arrival of the whooper swans. This is my truth. Part of it. Bits of it.
I know that words will fail me if I attempt to go any further. I know with certainty that I cannot attempt NaNoWriMo this year. I know that the temptation to settle for NaBloPoMo by way of consolation is a bad idea, running counter to the spirit of Blogging without Obligation, and causing angst about times when I may be away from Internet access.
This weekend just past was a busy poetry-friends-and-family-filled few days. I missed out on the chance to rule the world with Sunday Scribblings yesterday, but I've visited one or two kingdoms in which I wouldn't mind living. I'm rambling. Truth? My brain needs sleep.