It teaches us to pay attention, to learn how to be alone with ourselves.
Less building a perfectly sturdy house with all the bells and whistles and more finding shelter before a storm hits.
We grow. We learn. We wipe it all away.
Like a soul that knows it cannot be comprehended by its body, the meaning of a poem is left to devices outside of language, outside of formal knowledge or rationality.
The instant a poem is contained the poet dies, and we can’t let that happen.
At one point I’m just focused on the other thing—Baduizm is blowing me away in these first songs—On and On is eternally (you realize) catching—but when I come back in these short interaction with writing, I see little things that can get lost in the big-picture.
He changed and his poems changed with him.