Riverside reflections on writing “Rehearsing Repetitions on the Rappahannock”
The Rappahannock River’s switchbacks cross a flattening Chesapeake basin to the sea. On the old map in front of me, the unfolding river moves with a flourish of quill-quickened calligraphy—a declaration of blackness fattening toward a monumental invisibility beyond Virginia’s rich shores….
The multifarious fantasies of river-watching reach out to jaded consciousness, fingering perhaps the sad man’s brain-sac after experiencing the the riprap ravages of tragedy….
There’s comfort and confrontation in the repetitions of ripples. Like the sighs and rhymes and glottal agonies of actors repeating their run-on lines, the ripples kiss and disperse—both welcomed and dismissed by inviting consciousness….
The waves rise and ride the rude fire of sun’s tumbling over the hill, creating green brims of their own in liquid display. Hills and waves are much alike, and the tired mind finds itself in finding out the degrees of their similitude….
Yes, there’s a lot more of lucent than lunacy in “the patient good of going nowhere” as even the most ingenious ages attest. Indeed, this sitting in the coracle of consciousness and watching the objective world and subjective mind interpenetrate is what makes us humans such superb interpreters! But interpreters of what and to what, well….
This poem is about the satisfactions of being a knot in that web. About remaining supple while the evidential pulse of existence passes through the tree of ganglia above your neck. About knowing without knowing for sure….
On the rap,