This is an open letter from a man who searches,
who seeks in every heart the pulse of beauty,
and in hearing it there wishes to explore it.
Everything is in god.
I’ve ridden the wild horses, crashed and burned,
I’ve entered the cities of Rimbaud’s hashish dreams,
and still I know it’s not all disorder and loss.
Everything must be made romantic.
I’ve sought out love in the great harbors of America,
and then ended up alone on the docks singing “Dock of the Bay.”
Yeah, two thousand miles from home, and I really
did toss my wedding ring into the ocean.
And then I came back home. Georgia hills, Georgia truths.
Expressing love is expressing god.
Most of my writing is a shuffling mass of metaphors
hunting for a sign to plant itself in, and what’s
happening is that I’m looking for grounds of completion,
and yet I’m afraid of what is in that completion.
It’s the same with love affairs. I can’t say more.
The heart can be reborn, remade, realized.
Oceans, winds, kisses, and skin, it’s the undulation
of rose petals in early autumn, the first glance,
the first touch, the honor of being loved, pride of knowing,
and I know that like the roots, vibrant and strong,
we are at our best when the season is both warm and cool.
The closer I get to knowing who I am the more
I want to know who others are.
Mark Strand, Dark Harbor, the angel fluttering above the fire:
I want to tear down the walls I spent years constructing,
I want to live in the harbor of art, god, and love.
And maybe if I live it right I’ll no longer be a writer of solitude,
maybe I'll even find that harbor here.
