photography (49591) nature (7812) poetry (4192) birds (1899) animal songs (4) dan liberthson (1) a poetry of birds (1) the pitch is on the way (1) morning and begin again (1) a family album (1)
I remember picking up a mysterious object in a field as my mother walked me home from nursery school. That event, captured in the following excerpt from my longer poem, partly shaped my destiny—to be a writer.
In primordial time I four years old found amid sodsmelling grass a tan stick, manmade, swirled black pattern luminous, portending. It’s a fountain pen, you said, to write on paper with, bought a squat bottle, levered up black ink, and scribed a magic line direct from mind to dancing hand. Let me! I shouted, wanting only to curl that script out of myself . . .
Fifty years later, in Hong Kong, I was riveted by a marble floor tile in an office building lobby, wild as a Pollock or Kandinsky, that suggested the tangled pathways by which I have fulfilled that destiny. I cordially invite you to explore them on this site.