“Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.” Robert Frost
Big Why does the sound of a car like that in the early evening set me on edge, not in a fearful way, not in a knowing way, although I remember my youth, but in the way it undoes my sense of equilibrium without even trying? That violin in Massenet's Thais as a meditation unfolds my heart in ways that open me to a rush of feelings that are confusing, always colliding, why is it that I am so happy when yet I am sad, melancholic in orchestrations? How can it be that new discoveries make me pine for campus days and raw, original thoughts, now lost in the annals of acquiescence to the facade of the realities of routinised living, detached, yet bubbling below my surfaced life? Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent Cannon All Rights Reserved ®
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