One Morning We’ll All Awaken without a Theory
17 Jan, 2013 - Claire Bateman
at wooden desks,
our blank composition books
exuding their distinctive freshness.
Not translation
nor transliteration—
heaven forbid
“original work.”
Like the abbots of old,
our first-grade teachers knew:
there is a rest that comes
in copying by hand.
The breath unclenches.
The heart settles quietly into itself.
On the blackboard, swathes of erasure,
backwash of the cloud
that must have passed through
while we were dreaming.
photo by:
hellosputnik
About the author
1 Comment
-
January 17, 2013
Lovely! This poem leaves me with much to think on.



