It had to happen — they’ve gone and made a model of one!

Letters to Strangers

This is my letter to the world
That never wrote to me.
— Emily Dickinson

We write our letters to strangers, to you who will turn
the corner of the page to stumble upon a garden of poem
or this epistolary plain, write letters rooted in nuances
of the commonplace of our every day living where you
may plant yourself and perhaps lift the eyes, furrow
the brow, or tum lips upward into a sheepish smile,
maybe scratch the head or nod or not, bare feet propped
up on a fat pillow on a hard table top, to you thinking
perhaps about a lost child or safe return home, some
forgotten kiss or one you wish you had given freely,
that job you took on or wished you never had, that song
whose lyrics fleet in and out of a quiet afternoon or
disturb sleep, even those large lettered signs you lifted in
protest or others you did not heed and thought you would
or should, all while sipping a sweetened tea or rounding
a whiskey glass rim with lemon peel, fingers pressed
to temple, mind hovering or darting off from these letters
to strangers, clearing a way from the maze of the page,
letters trying speak to you, calling to you to stay a little
longer, to come here, come in a little closer, force your
ear to the earth of words straining to burst into bloom
just for you.

Andrena Zawinski

High winds

High winds
like beating wings
at the edges of the air
while you
wild as any wind
draw me to you.

Horror

Horror cannot be spoken because it is alive; because it is silent and is going forward; it drips into the day and it drips into sleep.
Sorrow-recalling pain.

George Seferis
Last Stop
trans. Rex Warner

Meaning

Religion, mysticism and magic all spring from the same basic ‘feeling’ about the universe: a sudden feeling of meaning, which human beings sometimes ‘pick up’ accidentally, as your radio might pick up some unknown station. Poets feel that we are cut off from meaning by a thick, lead wall, and that sometimes for no reason we can understand the wall seems to vanish and we are suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of the infinite interestingness of things.

Colin Wilson
The Occult