Going for a walk nowadays feels like a space mission :
Face shield? Mask? Check.
Hand sanitiser? Check.
Space suit? We wish.
I wish we could wander, off-radar, footloose in urban space.
Instead we walk as the crow flies—
shortest distance between two points, no meandering allowed.
I've always been a wayfarer, slowing down to read the writing on the wall, to Hipsta-frame the round things at our feet. Stop-look-see, upside-down-sideways.
Look at that straight line running left-to-right through the middle of the graph :
That's not me. I'm all the other ones, peaking above and below.
That's how we—Bert and me—came to be at CRAB Park (Vancouver) recording crows.
Wayfaring; singing the song of landscape poets—miles of irregular verse punctuated with pausa, ossia and extensive foot-notes. Concrete poetry, if you pave.
I miss these walking adventures : the wonder of wander. The joy of discovering another of John's haiku tags (see earlier post), each a hidden room, a forgotten land, a secret planet to explore.
Nowadays, these are the planets seen on our board walks :
Writing is my new normal for walking; wanderlust momentarily satisfied by words in absolute rhythm*, in the textured soundscapes of this blog :
Catchy title? Check.
Unique content? Check.
Poetic space? Getting there.
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Ezra Pound, American poet, on the "absolute rhythm" in poetry :
Rhythm. - I believe in an 'absolute rhythm', a rhythm, that is, in poetry which corresponds exactly to the emotion or shade of emotion to be expressed. A man's rhythm must be interpretative, it will be, therefore, in the end, his own, uncounterfeiting, uncounterfeitable.