Houdini hours. That's what I call those spells of wonder at the edge of awareness when words soar above the hubbub between sleep and death, striving for a consciousness uncaged.
That happens when I morph into a figurative fugitive after being caught up in the sundry details of insignificance with which the days pass us by, as if everything were merely a matter of happenstance. Yes, hapless ever after like dust in the heels of us carelessly passing through.
Still a fledgling in Poetry after 12 years so far of pursuing the birdcall of this "most sullen and solitary of art," I have been at a loss over some of my pieces too elusive to stay, resisting to be gathered as keepsakes of my greenhorn flights of fancy. As if they refused to be caged or be fixed like dead butterflies framed up on a wall. Where have all those poems gone?
Painstakingly, and even if a lot of my literary attempts often leave me flushed in the face while I wince and squirm under my skin, I have plucked out some that have refused to be towed out of my reach, stuck somewhere where I tucked them pell-mell, gathering dust and the smell of forgetting.
For better or for worse, I intend to keep these as mementos of those moments that stretch eternal out of "the white walls of silence," when my cowlick fluttered cloudward as I ventured my own version of being an escape artist out of the fetters-- tritely does it-- of merely skimming over the surface, in search of meaning and its presences.
With your indulgence, allow me to invite you to my new blog for my poetry in English: Flickers of Flight (http://brewingmyke.blogspot.com). Ayu-ayo!