A Route of Evanescence,
With a revolving Wheel –
A Resonance of Emerald
A Rush of Cochineal –
And every Blossom on the Bush
Adjusts it’s tumbled Head –
The Mail from Tunis – probably,
An easy Morning’s Ride –
"There is also in each of us the maverick, the darling stubborn one who won't listen, who insists, who chooses preference or the spirited guess over yardsticks or even history. I suspect this maverick is somewhat what the soul is, or at least that the soul lives close by." - Mary Oliver
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Jane Hirshfield! Oh, Jane!
The
Weighing
The
heart's reasons
seen clearly,
even the hardest
will carry
its whip-marks and sadness
and must be forgiven.
seen clearly,
even the hardest
will carry
its whip-marks and sadness
and must be forgiven.
As
the drought-starved
eland forgives
the drought-starved lion
who finally takes her,
enters willingly then
the life she cannot refuse,
and is lion, is fed,
and does not remember the other.
eland forgives
the drought-starved lion
who finally takes her,
enters willingly then
the life she cannot refuse,
and is lion, is fed,
and does not remember the other.
So
few grains of happiness
measured against all the dark
and still the scales balance.
measured against all the dark
and still the scales balance.
The
world asks of us
only the strength we have and we give it.
Then it asks more, and we give it.
only the strength we have and we give it.
Then it asks more, and we give it.
Jane
Hirshfield
Sunday, April 14, 2013
More April-ness!
Early April
Helpless to the spinning world
around me…
-Rebecca
Marcus
The
cyclists can’t help seeming self-important
and
the daffodils can’t help interloping
on
the edges of dark gardens; the shaggy birches
can’t
help tending them in peeling robes
and
the purple crocuses can’t keep from clashing
with
the orange noise of birds; the spring
can’t
help its interruptions and the morning
can’t
help its illusion of beginning again
beginning,
and the wanderer can’t help
squandering
the dimes of her small fortune
or
wish the morning could be the first line
of
a drawing her daughter began again; what if
this
was our first day, Becky, and the bulb
of
the heart humming in frost all those months
came
up as you were riding by, the orange
birds
requesting your attention and the first light
falling
on your dark eyes, knowing it was good?
***
This Moment
A
neighbourhood.
At dusk.
Things are getting ready
to happen
out of sight.
Stars and moths.
And rinds slanting around fruit.
But not yet.
One tree is black.
One window is yellow as butter.
A woman leans down to catch a child
who has run into her arms
this moment.
Stars rise.
Moths flutter.
Apples sweeten in the dark.
Eavan Boland
At dusk.
Things are getting ready
to happen
out of sight.
Stars and moths.
And rinds slanting around fruit.
But not yet.
One tree is black.
One window is yellow as butter.
A woman leans down to catch a child
who has run into her arms
this moment.
Stars rise.
Moths flutter.
Apples sweeten in the dark.
Eavan Boland