Tuesday, January 11


Hilarity and sour scorn typify my reactions to
passions of the moment: I mean, seeing people

expend themselves into fugitive extremes, it
speaks poorly of the power of the mind to

govern any kind of distances: until you
consider that passions, except in intense

subduals too long range to bear, only come in
moments, so if you are to get any passion out

of life, you'll have to dig it out of narrow
spaces or squeeze all you have into slender,

if deep, circumstance: I myself have never
known what to do about anything: as I look

back, I see not even a clown but a clown's
clothes flapping on the clothesline of some

tizzy: is it really wise so to anticipate
and prepare for the storm, so to gauge it in

terms of other storms, that when the fierce
lightning breaks and high wind falls blunt

against you you just look away with a numb
nonchalance: what about the splintering free

of the green branches, the bubbly pelt and
spray of windy rain on sudden pools, what

about the vigorous runaway of rivulets finding
themselves: what, what, did not the vibrance

of the ground in that thud click your teeth:
think of the tranquility, all passion spent,

when the passion passes and you lie back in
a relief of sweet feeling; whereas, unspent,

you would just growl your way into the next
worry of the next storm: hark, the bells are

ringing, the announcements are in preparation,
it is time for singing. . . .

-- Archie Ammons