Harboring in a Tarkovsky Wind

poem

Note:
i was simply being at the harbor, communing with the surroundings with an empty mind . . . . . then a gust of wind kicked up a bunch of dried brown leaves across the sand and the following spontaneous stream-of-consciousness poem was written in about 20 minutes. As the writing began, somehow it became clear that the poem was to be written for a friend, so the typical edit as am writing voice with the general reader in mind so it’s understandable got squelched, yet seems clear enough anyway. And as an elder poet used to say, am paraphrasing, poetry is more so meant to be felt than knowing exactly what it means.

"two instances of wind" . . . from one of the greatest film directors, Andrei Tarkovsky. “His films explore spiritual and metaphysical themes and are known for their slow pacing and long takes, dreamlike visual imagery and preoccupation with nature and memory.”

Harboring in a Tarkovsky Wind
                  ~ for O ~

bunch of dry brown leaves
kicked airborne in a Tarkovsky wind
shuttling them loopily
across beige harbor sands
across stones too numerous to count
too colorful to name the colors

the water makes repetitive swishy
sounds hitting the shore
in a rhythm unbeknownst
to any classical or jazz musician
have you ever noticed how the water
has no sound until reaching
the shore, truly an ancient timeless
symphony yet for poetic practical purposes
let's say the
sound of the water reaching shore
like a 'sigh' reaching home
after work or an 'mmm' after
a meal or a pleasant 'hummm' after
the dust has settled with
the bedsheets, if you know what i mean,
but let's return, as all
things will return, to the sounds
the water and shore in tandem make
this fusion, this combination of harbor
motionless and ever-moving waters
a blueprint of all resting and all
reaching―of beings always getting together
and blending yet before those
cherished moments of blending,
each to its own, the one
seeking the resting place,
the one being a place for
resting, yet motion too in that
resting with water seeping into sand
and shining little rocks
under the unusually warm
november sun, the sun that the
poet's eye hung
in the blue sky
the sun with which to light
the page to pen this memento
and we'll try to pin it down
but there's that Tarkovsky wind
again itching to render this
all back to the Zen blank page