Time is weird.
Occasionally, time gets drunk on too much ambivalence, mood, and paradox. Time stumbles into itself and sort of implodes, breaking up into formless fragments. Some of these fragments float into and out of our dreams, causing us to languish with a quixotic nostalgia after waking. Other fragments tumble in slow motion toward regions of absolute music or temples of lost gods — they begin to glow like violin wood or the eyes of a cat. Still other fragments merely wander the world abstracted, stupefied, spellbound.
Time can even sort of stop. It idles, loiters. That causes whorls and eddies of eternity to happen around objects and souls. Small islands of infinite significance get established inside things and heads.
The oddest thing about time, perhaps, is that it allows us openings onto poetical states. I don’t mean the word “time” here as a when or a what we might write; I mean it as a how we might write. When I read a poem that touches the ambivalent textures of everfelt and neverknown, I pay attention to the happening.
Autumn is the worst time for time to be left alone with itself and with a strong vintage of equivocal metaphysical mood. Time can get really smashed. Autumn is also the likeliest time for a poet to experience that inebriated ghost passing through his or her soul like a faint delirium tremens. The poet will know a peculiar duration, one that echoes toward the Hall of Immemorial Sighs. Surely there must be a distant answer to those haunted autumnal longings that get distilled into certain poems. Maybe a wan curator spirit otherwhere to preserve our most exquisite and forlorn imaginings.
Posted by Tim Buck