From Allen Ginsberg's poem, "The Sunflower Sutra,"
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!
There's something so expressive about sunflowers - very human. Very easy to see your soul, your existence in a sunflower.
And, from a poem by John Ashbery, "Late Echo,"
We see that there really is nothing left to write about.
Or rather, it is necessary to write about the same old things
In the same way, repeating the same things over and over
For love to continue and be gradually different.
This is what I've been thinking about lately - the need to write about the same old stuff. To go deeper into things. And that I think my daily practice teaches me about this. Because I seem to need to learn the same things over and over.
Every time you start a new book, it's as though you're learning to write all over again. When you stay in the same place, live in the same house for 14 years, as we have, in the same neighbourhood, walking the same paths.....what you learn is how little you know about a place, a neighbourhood a small plot of land. The way it changes, grows, the way it changes you....and gradually, you're different.
All summer long, waiting for these poppies and sunflowers to grow in their terra cotta pots. And now they're here in the great lovely waning at the end of August.