"I've come to realize the terrifying fact that there is only poetry in this world. Every bit of matter in this world is poetry. That has been the unchangeable fact from the moment words, as we call them, were born. How desperately people have tried to escape from poetry. But that has been an impossible thing to do. How cruel."
- Tanikawa Shuntarö, from The Art of Being Alone
My copy of The Art of Being Alone arrived while I was listening to this song by Ruth Moody over and over. I sometimes wonder how these unplanned meetings affect one's appreciation or approach to works of art. And seasons, how do they influence our readings of certain poems?
One more poem from the collection by Tanikawa Shuntarö:
A brief rest at Suzhou
Pine trees throw shadows on the white wall
peach trees bloom in the open air
fresh green tea leaves are sinking to the bottom of a glass
My life has been riding on
scattered pieces of paper
my regret resides elsewhere
What is far is close by
what is near is
The fortune I picked reads "Lucky"
Such a day full of grace
Such a day full of grace this is....