“He spreadeth out the heaven as a curtain; and walketh upon the wings of the wind”

I don’t usually associate hot pink with “majestic,” but when it comes to sunsets in the Southwest, such can be the case. In Tucson I think I’ve only ever seen that in July – maybe the beginning of August, but in Santa Fe there’s a chance of cloudy gorgeousness all summer long. Tonight, for instance, I was walking back to campus from a house I may rent at about 8 pm, and after that indescribably luminous honey and cumulonimbus thing that happens when the sky is thinking of raining, but doesn’t quite get there, right around sunset – you know the look; the kind of light that can make even the cholla lovely – and then, after hovering there ten minutes or so, it started getting tufts of lavender, and all of a sudden – bam! the whole Western sky is about the shade of a Barbie sheet set, with rows and rows of ruffles. But somehow the affect wasn’t cheap, but rather shockingly lovely. My back was to it, but it was just so impressive, I could help a silent exclamation of “God!” and some excerpts from Psalm 103. No wonder it’s read at Vespers. Sometimes I wish I were a poet…

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5 thoughts on ““He spreadeth out the heaven as a curtain; and walketh upon the wings of the wind”

  1. Not to disagree too strongly with you, but your descriptive powers may not be typically romantic, but “tufts of lavender”, “light that makes even the cholla lovely”, “lumiinous honey and cumulonimbous thing”, “bam”, “shade of a Barbie sheet set”, “rows and rows of ruffles”, “shockingly lovely”–good description! Reminds me a little of Flannery O’Connor. Like your pottery, your descriptive powers may not be conventionally pretty or cute, but you have some power in a sometimes brusque sort of way.
    Which reminds me of Yuma, where it may not rain much, but during the summer the skies were a raspberry pudding purple pink, and maybe I should add sometimes a rather violent electric color, like that green glow which accompanied that remnant of a hurricane in Yuma, plastering the sky with an eerie efflorescence. (I would have to look that word up to make sure its accurate). Enjoyed your blog though.

  2. I would argue that being a poet is strictly skill and not something you are born with (In the same sense speaking English is strictly skill and not something you are born with). I’m the same way with speaking Spanish, so I know how you feel about poetry.

  3. In other words, nothing is stopping you from becoming a poet except time and finding someone to teach you. I’d encourage you to do find those two things and use them.

    • Yes, I imagine that’s the case. The question becomes to what extent it’s a skill worth acquiring. I seem somewhat perverse in that I can generally appreciate a poetic sense far more easily in prose than in poetry. I can hear a poem a hundred times before I manage to appreciate it properly. In that the Church is obliging; I really do have to listen to the same Psalms and hymns hundreds of times. Perhaps it comes down to patience – it’s easy to recognize a beautiful painting instantly, beautiful novel in one reading, a charming essay in half an hour, but poetry isn’t the same – at least to me. But probably that’s something defective in myself, and not in most poems.

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