Poem and photo credit:
Synopsis:
While knowing that we always renew and find different ways of doing and formulating our thoughts and our art, this poem is a reminder that we are continuously recycling these. An acknowledgement of our commonality, that we ‘stand on the shoulders of giants’ and to keep an eye on the deceptive seductions of the ego.
Before
It does not matter
who said it first
this is not a contest
and there are no prices
we don’t do copyright
or patent things here
every thought has been had
and every word spoken
a new combination
gives power to each intention
that’s all, and all is so much
It is sobering to think that
it does not matter
who said it first
when intentions meet
in the ether…
Who wants to be sober
I hear you ask in disdain
and I do understand
that sobering can be
a good look and what we
do not want to see
We are not as unique
as we would like to believe
as we keep on quoting
from what others have said
but do it differently
and this does not make it other
in intent
I take a moment to breath
some more and deeper a breath
look out of the window and see
a part of the ground covered with borage
it is not the same
that came out last year
but it is the same plant
or one of its ancestors or offspring
deep blue borage flowers
that the Romans floated
in glasses of red wine
as they went to their business of empire
today we use them to heal things
and the bees delight in floating themselves
from blossom to blossom
suckling the nectar they offer
and it does not matter
who did the suckling first
they know what they are doing
and do it again and again
But do not assume that each time
each worker bee has the same
experience as every other
they are all each and every bee
their own, that cleverly work for
the common purpose
of the survival of all
and we don’t seem to know this
that every word does like the bees
every thought, every combination
has been done before
just not in the same way
We go about our lives
feeling we are unique
and we are, but we are not
because it has all been thought
it has been written and said
it just hasn’t been necessarily shared
or it hasn’t been heard or noted
The beauty of difference
of things made with clay
is the touch that we give
to the object at hand
which contains
all of the information
it is just the formation that changes
We forget because we are not taught
to remember
we cannot remember
and we get dismembered
in the story of ourselves
I look out of the window again
to take another deep breath
and see and rejoice
that forget-me-nots are everywhere
but, do we get the message or not?
remember
re-member
or what?
It really does not matter so much
who said it, who thought it before.