Discipline

My friend every day writes a poem

sends it to two dozen people who read

& judge — we can’t not judge, it’s our nature

some respond, broadcast or private

everyone, I imagine, mostly deletes

I save the special few — one that notes

the comfort of scotch, one where a toddler

finds a dead fox — who else does this?

daily discipline, what else to call it?

more sensible than flagellation or peregrination

with begging bowl — who’s to say?

half as many readers for my latest blog

as email recipients of my friend’s poems

ample evidence that she works the arts

subtle & not so subtle rhyme, syllabics

& meter — the heron raises bent legs

like a native brave in a dance pretending

to stalk her prey — we stake our claim

the tribe survives because of female braves

Afoot in England [excerpt]
by W. H. Hudson

And if I have a purpose in this book, which is without a purpose, a message to deliver and a lesson to teach, it is only this — the charm of the unknown, and the infinitely greater pleasure in discovering the interesting things for ourselves than informing ourselves of them by reading. It is like the difference in flavour in wild fruits and all wild meats found and gathered by our own hands in wild places and that of the same prepared and put on the table for us. The ever-varying aspects of nature, of earth and sea and cloud, are a perpetual joy to the artist, who waits and watches for their appearance, who knows that sun and atmosphere have for him revelations without end. They come and go and mock his best efforts; he knows that his striving is in vain — that his weak hands and earthy pigments cannot reproduce these effects or express his feeling — that, as Leighton said, “every picture is a subject thrown away.” But he has his joy none the less; it is in the pursuit and in the dream of capturing something illusive, mysterious, and inexpressibly beautiful.