Come with me into the expansive gift of poetry to experience a disruption of habitual ways of thinking and perceiving. The magic of poetry happens when it is spoken, heard and felt as vibrations in your body.
This week's blog is dedicated to my dad who died September 21, 2012.
Dr. Rev. Samuel F. Rowen was a Presbyterian minister who frequently
ended his sermons with a highly inappropriate joke and then this poem.
Photo of Arlo Rowen-Herzog.
I wish to grow dumber,
to slip deep into woods that grow blinder
with each step I take,
until the fingers let go of their numbers
and the hands are finally ignorant as paws.
Unable to count the petals,
I will not know who loves me,
who loves me not.
Nothing to remember,
nothing to forgive,
I will stumble into the juice of the berry,
the shag of bark,
I will be dense and happy as fur.
- Noelle Oxenhandler