Stepping Away from the Edge

It is Friday

It is Friday.  Capping a busy week.  Heading into a busy weekend.  Leading to an even-busier next week.  More snow.  Muffler repair (Tom's).  And a party to throw.

This is when I turn to . . .

poetry.

Join me.

The Storm

Now through the white orchard my little dog
     romps, breaking the new snow
     with wild feet.

Running here running there, excited,
     hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins
until the white snow is written upon
     in large, exuberant letters,
a long sentence, expressing
     the pleasures of the body in this world.

Oh, I could not have said it better
     myself.

--- Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Volume Two

Ahhhhh.  I feel better already.

Enjoy the weekend . . . whatever it may hold.

Silent Poetry Reading . . . 2013

Over the Hill She Came

Over the hill
   she came,
      her long legs
         very scarcely

touching the ground,
   the cups of her ears
      listening
         with obvious pleasure,

to the wind
   as it stroked
      the dark arms
         of the pines;

once or twice
   she lingered
      and browsed
         some moist patch

of half-wrapped leaves,
   then came along
      to where I was --
         or nearly --

and then, among the thousand bodies
   of the trees,
      their splashes of light and their shadows,
         she was gone;

and I, who was heavy that day
   with thoughts as small as my whole life
      would ever be,
         and especially

compared to the thousand shining trees,
   gave thanks to whatever sent her
      in my direction
         that I might see, and strive to be,

as clearly she was,
   beyond sorrow,
      careless, soft-lipped angel
         walking on air.

--- Mary Oliver
      New and Selected Poems, Volume Two

12 (Blog) Days of Christmas: On the Ninth Day

 

On the Ninth (blog) Day of Christmas . . . I give you light!

It is the Winter Solstice . . . and very dark.  Here, it also snowing (just a little) and windy.  Winter may be finally arriving.

Light some candles.

Turn on the twinkle lights.

And enjoy some Shakespeare.

 

Enjoy some quiet light this weekend . . .

Light!

Sundays . . . Are For Poetry

Winter Solstice Chant

by Annie Finch

Vines, leaves, roots of drakness, growing,

now you are uncurled and cover our eyes

with the edge of winter sky

leaning over us in icy stars.

Vines, leaves, roots of darkness, growing,

come with your seasons, your fullness, your end.

 

Annie Finch, "Winter Solstice Chant" from Calendars, published by Tupelo Press.  Copyright © 2003 by Annie Finch.

Sundays . . . Are For Poetry

Around Us

by Marvin Bell

We need some pines to assuage the darkness
when it blankets the mind,
We need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly
as a plane's wing, and a worn bed of
needles to pad the rumble that fills the mind,
and a blur or two of a wild thing
that sees and is not seen.  We need these things
between appointments, after work,
and, if we keep them, then someone someday,
lying down after a walk
and supper, with the fire hole wet down,
the whole night sky set at a particular
time, without numbers or hours, will cause
a little sound of thanks--a zipper or a snap--
to close round the moment and the thought
of whatever good we did.

from Rampant by Marvin Bell; copyright 2004 Marvin Bell

Sundays . . . Are For Poetry

You say that in times like these
You're driven down to your knees
Looking around grieving what peace there was
You promised yourself you would
Work for a world of good
Look at you now wondering what good it does

No lost hope no violent point of view
Can erase all of the good you do

There's nothing as dark as night
But nothing so strong as light
Here is the choice: to let it burn out or bright
In a world where the fear and force
Have buried the silent source
Can you deny the need for a light like yours

No fast pace no jaded attitude
Can erase all of the good you do

If someone has left his wrath
On everything in his path
Taking the wealth and leaving his trash behind
Will you be peace or pride
Can you at last decide
There's no one to fight we are the same inside

So go home and get some rest
There's many more miles and tests
All about love what if it comes to be all that we have left

No dark place no debt and no abuse
Can erase all of the good you do

-- Christine Kane, from "The Good You Do"
on her CD Right Outta Nowhere

Sundays . . . Are For Poetry

i

you

us

them

those people

wouldn't it be lovely

if one could

live

in a constant state

of we?

some of the most

commonplace

words

can be some of the biggest

dividers

they

what if there was

no they?

what if there

was only

us?

if words could be seen

as they floated out

of our mouths

would we feel no

shame

as they passed beyond

our lips?

if we were to string

our words

on a communal clothesline

would we feel proud

as our thoughts

flapped in the

breeze?

-- Marilyn Maciel, "clothesline"
    (included in the book Life is a Verb by Patti Digh)

Nothing Gold Can Stay

The leaves are falling fast now.  It's only a matter of days before the trees are bare and the landscape is bleak.  Enjoy some poetry . . . for a late fall day.

Nature's first green is gold

Her hardest hue to hold

Her early leaf's a flower

But only so an hour

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief.

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

-- Robert Frost

Food for the Soul

Today, I join in the Silent Poetry Reading, honoring the Goddess Brigid, patron of poets and healers.

The Journey
by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations--
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life that you could save.

 

Included in She Walks in Beauty: A Woman's Journey Through Poems, selected by Caroline Kennedy

 

Music and Poetry

Today is Silent Poetry Day on blogs around the world.  I can't be silent, though.  So, enjoy some music with your poetry today.

 

 

GIRL

you wore blue pedal pushers and polka dot tops

saturday mornings

when sun still spoke

through a screenless window above the sink

and the radio rested on its ledge

holding the jive of a dj papa

"the sounds of soul w-o-k-j"

girl

nestled between some newly womanish hips

your hands submerged in lemon joy and breakfast dishes

while bottoms of bare feet

slid

slopped and

ponied to four tops

impressions and

dramatics

you were a girl with dixie peach bangs

hugging pink sponge rollers

and cashmere bouquet sprinkled

in the crease of not long opened breasts

who dreamed of boys

talking in poems

and moving in beauty like marvin gaye

will you remember this girl when you are a woman

will you remember to love her when she dances

across your dreams and kisses you

like a daughter

on the lips?

----- by Kelly Norman Ellis, published in Boomer Girls, edited by Pamela Gemin and Paula Sergi, Univeristy of Iowa Press, 1999