The Roots of a Poem

The opening poem in my collection “Memories in Clay, Dreams of Wolves,” has its roots with William Wordsworth Spots in Time section of the Prelude:

From The Prelude Book Twelfth William Wordsworth There are in our existence spots of time, That with distinct pre-eminence retain A renovating virtue, whence–depressed                             By false opinion and contentious thought, Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight, In trivial occupations, and the round Of ordinary intercourse–our minds Are nourished and invisibly repaired; A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced, That penetrates, enables us to mount, When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen. This efficacious spirit chiefly lurks Among those passages of life that give                              Profoundest knowledge to what point, and how, The mind is lord and master–outward sense The obedient servant of her will. Such moments Are scattered everywhere, taking their date From our first childhood. I remember well, That once, while yet my inexperienced hand Could scarcely hold a bridle, with proud hopes I mounted, and we journeyed towards the hills: An ancient servant of my father’s house Was with me, my encourager and guide:                                We had not travelled long, ere some mischance Disjoined me from my comrade; and, through fear Dismounting, down the rough and stony moor I led my horse, and, stumbling on, at length Came to a bottom, where in former times A murderer had been hung in iron chains.

The Songs Between David Anthony Sam There are certain places, certain times when the soul flies freely and feels one with the wind, and one with the land, and one with the lives around it. I have been graced with such places, such moments. They have demanded with need that I voice them and allowed my voice to fulfill them. A Wyoming prairie sings to me. A cold lake in Oregon made fresh from old winter snow dying. A lakeshore where waves clap, or an ocean of sand beside an ocean of sea and mist. A small room with her face. A park with their laughter. A mountainside made blue to me by distance, and a wide river valley between full of green, a gray slab of road, and the brown winding river. There are such places, such times that make me think if death were this– this open disappearing into life– death would be a fine thing. Instead I live between such places and such moments waiting only. And the song finds me when I am ready.