Wendell Berry reads his poem, “Sabbaths – 1985, I”
I had thought to do some explicating and annotating, but decided instead to respond in kind, but not in power. I love just listening to the sound of Berry’s voice, not ‘understanding’ the deeps, just skimming like a flat rock on his surface, absorbing the droplets skipping from the words and rippling and cross-rippling, amplitude and frequency all complexified and sweet.
Here is my response to his poem.
Poetry doesn’t always
have to be
about meaning,
nature
isn’t
always
owned.
We take these words
like water,
ablutions,
washing away
and away
and away.