Dark Matters

“. . .poetry is imaginary gardens with real toads in them”

                                                                   Marianne Moore

I love the word simulacrum, the delicious paradox, the exquisite mischief conjured by the meaning of a single impossibly suggestive word – simulacrum: a shadow with no source.  

Who tastes the painted apple?  Who hears the piper piping on the fired urn? Who must we be to become the breath that bends the branch of the tree no longer there.

Consider the invisible mind.  The dreamer for whom the moth within the dream and the moth within the room are the same moth.  The child upon her back with her eyes open to the stars, where are the heavens then?  Are they not also within the child who sees the galaxies of night.

Carl Sagan once upon a time opined that we are here to be the consciousness of the universe.  

If we live long enough to harbour old memories of times long past, we might then come to see that the winter is the elder wisdom of the nascent spring.

Plato once said of learning that all education is simply mere recollection of that which we already know.

In these poems, the dreamer and the imaginary dreamer join hands in the night where darkness casts a shadow in the absence of the presence of the light.