I'm in DC, writing poetry of Ireland - my poetry class teacher says what I
write is Jungian (I confess I haven't yet read any Jung). Here's one he just
dissected - I hope you like it (I feel a bit shy about sharing it!)
HOW COULD IT BE?
It was just last October
I first tramped Ireland's rain-soft ways,
on feet that recollected well
the shape of rocks
I'd fit them to no other time.
The smell of the little place,
salt-laden Atlantic drafts and weed-clad earth
in fields I'd seen before and never
shocked me with sharp reminders
of a landscape somehow known to me.
I peered through the drizzle
at faced I already knew,
had measured their stories,
weighed the incidents of ther lives
in well-worn memories,
carried carefully in the wallet
of my genes.
I heard the sounds of Irish
nudging at me through pub smoke
like waves washing up on a
I recognized their shape and place,
if not the sense,
and was contented then.
Where am I now?
Stuck, I think,
between echoes not yet sounded
and my longing to return.