PF

ISSN 
1942-2067

Copyright © 2008 Pirene's Fountain.

All Rights Reserved.

Last updated:
October 2008

  Pirene's Fountain
   

A Journal of Poetry

In the lore of Greek myths, naiad Pirene was grief-stricken by the death of her son, Cenchrias. She dissolved into a fountain of tears outside the gates of Corinth. It was said the essence of a naiad was tied to her spring; she could no longer exist if the spring dried up, as is often the case with inspiration and poetry. Pirene’s fountain was one of three springs associated with Pegasus, and was sacred to the muses, who drank of the waters for fresh inspiration.

At Pirene’s Fountain, it is our hope that we can share of each other’s knowledge, and in the spirit of Ancora Imparo –“ I am still learning,” open our hearts and minds to inspiration.

We are all connected in temporal flow; the passage of time and the very transience of life imparts urgency and meaning to our actions. In every living thing beats the pulse of life. Colors, textures, emotions, all change, moment to moment. In a vast array of rhythms, life plays a wild and heady music. The thrum of air reverberating, the pumping of the heart, the drone of cicadas...everything pulses. Especially time.

A sunset fades quickly as does the spontaneous smile of a baby. Feelings evoked from a kiss linger only in heart-beats…such is the nature of time, evanescent, fleeting, gone. Tempus fugit…seconds drain away, never to be retrieved. Unless, that is, we are somehow able to rein in time, distill the essence from those moments, and preserve them intact for future resonance.

Art has a way of conjuring that magic. A photograph, a poem, a painting, a song…the material of dreams, insubstantial but rich enough to spark off memories that hold the past in the present. Poetry, photography, and other arts capture those precious moments, fractions of myriad experiences that make up eternity, which in a sense, become our survival beyond death.

In “A Letter from Li Po” Conrad Aiken writes:
“time becomes visible, becomes audible,
becomes the poem and the music too”

Time

He's almost human
if you think about it.
He creeps, he crawls,
he sweeps, he flies,
he lulls you into
thinking he's on your side.
He mocks you as you try
to catch up with him
but he's always a step ahead.
As you reach out
to capture him,
he sifts through your
numb fingers like sand.
Just when you think
you have him,
he runs out on you,
the bastard.

Charles Morrison
August: 2008

...yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream.”
--Kahlil Gibran