Jim Moonan

Owner/Artistic Director, NorthWind Education

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Listen to the Poets

At any given time in a civilized society, there are poets who see what is happening and give transcendent meaning to it. (For example, T.S. Eliot's, "The Wasteland" and Ginsberg's, "Howl")

But there are countless "minor" poets (like you) who give us spoonfuls of understanding of what is happening and how everything is connected.

Let's take some time to listen to them. Good poetry is like meditation. It can reset, refocus, rejuvenate the conscience. Give us a poem that has caused you to be still and to listen. Share with us your own poetry that has poured out from your conscience.

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    May 11 2012: I will start.

    This morning, under the heavy influence of coffee, I opened my email account and was greeted with the following warning (I'm paraphrasing) "Your email acount has been accessed/breeched by someone in India. Please change your password immediately to protect yourself". Something like that. From time to time I receive a "wake up call" like this that tells me these are dangerous times we live in.

    So, with the help of four cups, I wrote this:


    And Then It Happens

    We live in an imaginary time
    A time of light and shadow
    A time of flesh and ethereal possibility
    Hypothetical realities circle our thoughts and actions.

    Our fingers are like tiny feet
    Leaving prints in the mud of virtual landscapes
    We travel over keyboard stones
    Filling our cargo pockets as we go
    With traces of where we’ve been
    Captured by the web we never see
    The web that keeps spinning outward
    Silken streams of data that trace us, chase us further
    Into some remote corner
    And then it happens.
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      May 11 2012: The behemoth that is the worldwide web is replete with facilitating learning tools and astonishing communication possibilities. . . but, it does chase and trace each one of its users. Provocative work, Mr. Moonan. Thanks.
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    May 11 2012: As a 17 year old on the verge of graduation from high school, I'm a the peak of my quest to discover myself and what is "me". As of late, I've discovered my talents in athletics, music, and art. Anyway, I wrote this last night as I was taking in the atmosphere of my basement:
    I live for the small things in life,
    the moments of pure bliss.
    This ping pong ball is my metronome.
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      May 12 2012: You are right about the small things in life. They are just as likely to hold the key to understanding as anything else.

      Here is a poem by David Whyte that reminds me of your ping pong ball:


      The Lightest Touch

      Good poetry begins with
      the lightest touch,
      a breeze arriving from nowhere,
      a whispered healing arrival,
      a word in your ear,
      a settling into things,
      then like a hand in the dark
      it arrests the whole body,
      steeling you for revelation.

      In the silence that follows
      a great line
      you can feel Lazarus
      deep inside
      even the laziest, most deathly afraid
      part of you,
      lift up his hands and walk toward the light.
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    Jun 3 2012: YES! and our resident poet in my opinion is JIM. Hello! I missed you! How are you and your lovely wife?
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    May 16 2012: Jim, The amazing thing about poems is that when ten people read the same poem you get a different perspective from each. Even though we brush against the writers insight we cannot share the moment that inspired the picture he paints. All the best. Bob