Freedom is not to be proved but is rather a postulate <br />of action. Thus excellent Berdyaev, <br />who has meant much to me, <br />although I must shake my head and make a face <br />when he undertakes to explain <br />the Holy Ghost. We are unbelievers, <br />Cindy, which may be (I regularly <br />think it is) our misfortune. But we are still <br />existentialist lovers. Yes, <br />strange Soren Kierkegaard of Hamlet's province <br />would approve of us--well, somewhat--in our unchurchly <br /> dark <br />devotions. In Syracuse the rain falls every day, <br />or so it seems; the faces <br />of the good unchurchly burghers of Edgehill Road <br />are as bland as marshmallows and as puffy. <br />To live here, to love here, <br />as Jack our friend the Gilbert would say, <br />sighing, smiling, <br />requires an extraordinary knowledge of freedom, <br />unhistorical and reinvented by us here in every <br />act, as when I brought for you for a love token <br />the plastic sack of just sprouted lilies-of-the-valley <br />to plant around the steps of our arched doorway. <br />That was phenomenon, not poetry, not symbol, the act <br />without a proof, freedom-in-love.<br /><br />Hayden Carruth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poem-catching-up-with-an-idea/
