Read more about For Christopher>
The red beast
who lives in the side of these hills
won’t come out for anything you have:
money or music. Still, there are moments
heavy with light and good luck. Walk
quietly under these tangled vines
and pay attention, and one morning
something will explode underfoot
like a branch of fire; one afternoon
something will flow down the hill
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words. Read more about October Wind
When I first began reading through the , I noticed what seemed to be an obsession with death. Then I thought that perhaps it wasn't so much an obsession as an integral part of her life experience. I wrote a little about that in one of my first Poetry page entries.
I'm still reading Emily once in a while. Chanced on this one a couple of days ago, and remembered why we love her so.
Read more about Poet of Joy>
Read more about Another September>
This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war,
Is there a better description of a tree than uttering joyous leaves?
by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
Read more about Treespeak>
I SAW in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
All alone stood it, and the moss hung down from the branches;
Without any companion it grew there, uttering joyous leaves of dark green,
'Tis a beautiful morning in May and I'm grateful for sites like this one.
'Tis like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume:
There's crimson buds, and white and blue,
The very rainbow showers
Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers.
I am so haunted by moments of imperfection that I actually dream about them. Last night, for instance. A lovely dream. Rare for me. And then - and then - I screw it up. Some little thoughtless thing that I do earns me disapproval from whoever that was in the dream in whose approval I was basking. Story of my life. So this morning what should the universe send me but this delightful piece from Poetry Daily. Read more about Imperfection
From Poetry Daily this morning:
Read more about Ubiquitous Grief>
The country is ruined, yet the mountains and rivers remain.
In the city in spring, the grass and trees grow dense and wild.
In this sorrowful time, the flowers are wet with tears.