As The Mind Wanders

• In 1890 William James suggested, and it remains to this day a commonly accepted definition of attention: “Everyone knows what attention is. It is the taking possession by the mind, in clear and vivid form, of one out of what seem several simultaneously possible objects or trains of thought”.

Yes, we know about that focused thought, if we've applied our minds to concscious tasks: doing our taxes, designing and building intricate projects, solving problems and puzzles, reading and studying thought-provoking documents or books.

We also find mind's other possible trains of thought, which seem not to involve this consciously deliberate 'taking possession' of fully conscious thought or subject-matter as it applies to the externals around us.

Rather, in less focused, conscious states, the mind allows itself to inwardly wander and meander in search of its most imaginative, creative thoughts and to stroll freely, exploring its own fascinating mental terrain where it can stretch itself, uninhibited, among the possibilities. It is in this state that it can embellish our tenderest desires, investigate our motives and frustrations, solve our dilemmas and quieten our fears; and in it, can almost miraculously initiate our creation of wondrous works of art, literature, or music. The actual development of such works moves to a more focused, conscious level, where we can bring them into more tangible reality.

Poetry-writing and other creative arts may be born in either mental realm, - or both. Inspiration may come as a conscious focus on one's internal thought and feeling, which might have been consciously ignited by external beauty being observed or impressive events experienced, which, in turn, may bring forth the creative response; or it may simply arise to consciousness in a fully attentive state without first dipping into one's internal resources. When that happens, we are aware of and fully in charge of it, from onset to completion.

But, sometimes more surprisingly, it arrives so sub-conciously and spontaneously that it awakens one from sound sleep or snaps one out of deep day-dreaming, descending like an "AHA moment", so powerful that one must hurry to try to write it down, or paint it, or sing it, whatever one's inspiration is, at the precise moment one becomes "aware" of it, before the inspiration slips back into the recesses of one's creative mind, where it may silently remain, or from where it may again arise in another state of receptive sub-consciousness pushing to the surface for another temporary moment!

That receptive state and its operative effects are what this hub's poetry is about.

V4

I’m merely the conduit for words I think,

But know not from whence they come;

Nor are they really mine.

They come from timelessness;

I may go not from thence they come.

Groggily, I must capture them

Before they vanish

Back to their ether homes,

And write them down

On whatever is around.

If I'd lived in ancient times

I'd need to etch on stones;

Or, if in Middle Ages,

Find quill and parchment

To inscribe the borrowed tomes.

But now it's cellphone keyboard

In early morning's light,

Grasping for eyeglasses to see

Its screen on which to write

Those words that dawn on me.

Oh! Say you, - but it is mine, -

This mind that wanders through

My dreams, awake or sleeping.

Perhaps it is, by some design

Which yields it to my keeping.

Yet non- deliberate, these thoughts,

These words which simply seep

Out ephemeral regions' fleeting thread

Beyond my conscious ken

And where these feet can't tread.

No genius is mine to claim,

'Less it's openness to ponder

Mysteries that creep into this mind,

Awaken me, - arouse to follow

Wherever mind may wander.

〰©Nellieanna H. Hay

ΞξΑΩξΞ

Oh, the joy of finding IT

Among the misty caverns

Of mind’s own eye,

To be welcomed and caressed.

But being unexpressed

Is tortuous!

It’s monstrous

Losing those crystalline images,

When running out of space

In that awful borrowed place

Where mind wanders through the lace

Of intricate imaginings.

〰©Nellieanna H. Hay

But wait!

I almost caught IT

As it crossed my mind;

But it had simply fled,

Too quickly, off it sped!

I can play its cagey game.

But if I am to win

I’ll need practice

Faster reflexes, please!

Its whim seems but to tease!

〰©Nellieanna H. Hay

REALMS OF WONDERMENT

The silent intelligence in me

Which caused my single cell to break

Into a million cells,

Each to perform its purpose,

Abides yet in my body and my brain,

Wisely keeping itself working well,

Creating the person I am to be.

It's constantly creating.

It's what it does,

Whether recognized or not.

I cannot will it to or not to.

It's simply what it does.

I may ignore its signals to come out and play,

Stuff them in embarrassment at such audacity!

I may disparage its signals as merely pointless dreams,

Unkempt, Impractical, - as others try to say, -

And simply stay the same, however lame my schemes.

Or I'll embrace its signals

With tactile, tactical means,

And welcome from sub-consciousness

Its wondrous fleeting machine,

With retinue to polish and refine

In consciousness, those dreams.

And so, perhaps, I'll seek and find

The keys to all I'm meant to be.

〰©Nellieanna H. Hay

Subliminal depths

Phenomenal heights

Point the way to you.

Your sublime scent

Dazzles me.

Your dazzling mind

Amazes me.

I am here,

But where are you?

〰©Nellieanna H. Hay

Unless otherwise attributed, all design, graphics and written material herein are original and copyrighted by Nellieanna H. Hay.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This material is protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from Nellieanna H. Hay.