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Groundhog Poetry Page
Paros Poetry |
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| Just So by Michael Hockaday Some day, maybe in February, June, or March, yet one fine day finally, surprisingly, you let the Music have its way completely. You begin to fashion instruments from the Earth around you. The slim, supple green reed cut to length just so, then drilled with holes just so, you fill with the letting go of subtle, secret, ancient longings. Then such songs of utter sweetness blow right through you, a green river, so you yourself become the instrument. It is the music! Such music is flowing! Some golden day at dawn, you carefully select two harmonious black stones from the ribcage of Kolympithres, and so to reach the ears of gods you clack and click them together rhythmically, urgently, as if the Old Ones could not hear you. You carve whistles, and wander round the mountains whistling. This poem is from a work-in-progress called the ‘Sacred Seven Pools of Paros’, begun in the fall of 2007. The poet, a Scotsman from the USA who fell in love with the sea and land and people during his brief stay last year, plans to spend the spring searching for the inspirational founts from which the musical iambs of Archilochos issued. Contact Michael at rimercouplet@yahoo.com |