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Posts Tagged ‘beauty’


 
so full of light, this girl
walking through the airport
that watching her I see how one person
makes everything around them brighter,
even, when I am with her, me. 

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I sat for hours in concourse A,
the plane delayed, delayed again,
surrounded by a young mother 
with three hungry children and two 
elderly couples who played endless 
rounds of go fish and men in dark suits
on their cell phones and girls filming 
dances for TikTok, when I looked up 
and saw out the window a double rainbow,
ridiculously pretty against the slate sky,
and not wanting to be alone in my joy,
I touched the arm of the boy beside me 
and he leaped up and ran to the window,
and all of us stopped to point or smile
or make jokes about pots of gold.
We will never see each other again,
but for a moment, we stood together 
at the edge of delight, and the rainbows, 
they just kept getting brighter, and I thought 
it couldn’t possibly get any more lovely. 
And the boy smiled at me. And then it did. 

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Entranced

 

 
It scared me and thrilled me, the quick spider,
   a gentle light gray, like midnight midsummer
   in Finland. It was unusually large 
for this part of the world where spiders
   tend to be smaller than a dime. But this
   spider had long, elegant legs, 
I carefully gathered it in tissue.
   You belong out here, I said, as I walked it to the lawn.
   Slow as you please, it let out a length of dragline silk 
to dangle from my hand like a pendulum.
   Two nights ago, I held in my arms a newborn girl,
   eyelashes barely visible, little bubbles forming
between slightly parted lips, her eyes moving
   in sleep. What could be in the dreams of a three-
   day-old child? I cradled her head in one hand, 
her whole body in the other, astonished by how
   much preciousness fits in a being so small. 
   All around us, so many kinds of beautiful lives.
And inside us, so many invisible strands of astonishing 
   elasticity and tensile strength that weave us together
   through the chaos, beauty to beauty to bittersweet beauty
   to innocent beauty to unlikely beauty to beauty.

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                  with thanks to the makers of Your Attention, Please


I go to the hillside at the end of the valley
and sit beside the gray stone with his name on it.
I am in need of deep grounding.
My beloved friend comes alongside. We sit
on the ground beside the grave, frothy white 
seeds of dandelions clinging to our clothes.
We sit until the sun moves away from the valley, 
climbing toward the peaks. I do not mind being sad. 
Sad makes sense when I think of how any child 
can no longer imagine this is a world in which
they belong. This world of green aspen leaves
and alpine snow fields and delicate dandelion fluff. 
This world in which any human is made to feel 
as if they are not enough. How many? And how 
many more? I run my fingers through the tall 
cemetery grass. How green it is. My friend
and I listen to the chaos of birdsong riffling 
across the canyon. I am near destroyed
by the damn beauty of it. The tiniest drift
of cloud goes by. No, not destroyed. 
Opened. 

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

*Hey, friends, I have been going to see films at MountainFilm in Telluride this weekend, and tonight I saw such a profoundly moving, disturbing, insightful, intelligent film about the effects of social media on young people (and all of us). If you get a chance to see Your Attention, Please, it offers compelling reasons for why we might want to rethink our relationship with social media. 

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In every moment, there is a car 
 and an infinite hill and the chance 
  you will roll down that hill. With no brakes.
   Backwards. When grief first yanked me
    into its old beater, I was too stunned
     to try to stop gravity from doing what 
      gravity does. Mostly, these days, 
I forget what can happen. Mostly, 
 there’s a rope attached to the car
  that keeps it from careening, a rope 
   made of friendship, of family, 
    of trust in the self that has grown over time. 
     The rope is a lovely illusion.
      Sometimes I fool myself into believing
       that the stability I feel is because 
the brakes are fixed and I’ve become 
 better at parking, even in the steepest zones. 
  I fool myself into thinking the rope can’t be cut.  
   That is why, perhaps, it’s so surprising
    when I feel the lurch, my stomach rising
     into my chest. So surprising to see loss 
      is sitting in the driver’s seat looking  
       at me with its uncompromising gaze
        as if to say, No, sweetheart, 
 that seatbelt won’t do you any good. 
 If you pray, now’s a good time for that—
  but don’t bother to pray for the car 
   to stop. Pray to be able to laugh 
    as we speed down the hill. 
     Pray that as the world blurs by,
      while terror squeezes your throat
       what is most alive in you also notices 
        how radiant the sunset, how briefly 
it shines, that tender pink. 

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Head Down


 
 
so focused 
on writing
about beauty
I almost
didn’t notice
the round
green scent
of aliveness
flourishing wildly
all around me

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Everywhere


 
 
Tenderness pierces the heart
the way a bright stream of sunlight
pierces evening clouds,
the way the green stem of garlic
pierces cold spring soil.
It pierces the heart the way protests
for justice pierce silence.
If anyone asks, where does it hurt,
the truest answer is everywhere.
If anyone asks, where can I find
beauty enough to make me weep,
the answer is the same.

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I take my rage to the river.
A heron flies into the wind.
I let myself be opened
by the great gray wings
and the great gray sky
and the great gray largeness of water,
not to rid myself of rage
but to become a clearer channel
to meet the chest-scouring,
scab-clawing, cell-screaming,
throat-burning fury of rage
and remind my heart I can
know all this rage, can be
feral with rage and still
keep on loving the world.

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So much radiance
above the horizon—
glowing pink, deeper pink—
I wanted to gather
it all and keep it,
hold it forever,
but where to
store something
that large? I
gathered all that beauty
in my heart,
my heart, a mockery
of a pocket. Of course
it spilled out. I put
the pink glow back
in the sky. It lit
the whole world.

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Just after midnight
we stand beside the stove
holding each other,
your thumb slowly relearning
the portal of my spine.
Satie’s first Gymopédie
slips stepwise through the room,
the tune like starlight emerging
after a storm blew down all the trees.
We are almost, but not quite, still.
How little movement it takes,
plus an opening in the mind,
to know the body as dancing.
How little beauty it takes
to know a sad moment  
as a moment both sad and beautiful.
And what of a year? What of a life?
How much beauty can we bring
with the days we are given?
How would the years change
if we believed we were not
just moving through them,
but dancing?

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At Her Last Dance Recital


 
 
It was not all for this one moment
when she stood alone on stage,
poised on her toe shoes, both arms
raised, her hands and wrists pulsing
in delicate waves—all the pink tights
and hair nets, blisters and tears
and long rehearsals for fourteen years—
it was not all for this winged moment
when Saint-Saëns played and she leapt
and pirouetted and pas de bouréed—
but this was the moment when I knew
with certainty that in a world of ache
and cruelty, we can change the world
and be changed by beauty.

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They live a thousand years.
This, alone, is enough to
invite admiration. Robust.
Unfussy. They survive drought,
disease, pollution, pests.
They thrive in the midst of sirens
and car fumes, gridlocks and
garbage cans, concrete and horns.
 
And all across the city today,
a golden fluttering, a radiant trembling
on even the darkest streets. As if
to endure is not enough. As if we are
also here to burn bright, to shine, to offer
to the world every scrap of beauty we can.

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The Mirror

Overnight, every red leaf on the maple tree
has fallen to the ground and formed
an imperfect pool of red around
the solemn trunk, the dark bare limbs.
This is how it was the day you died.
In an instant, the tree of me went
from radiance to nakedness.
Impossible to hide.
Years later, I see what I couldn’t
see then—how beautiful to be that bare
when all that is lost is still so close,
when the limbs of the body
still remember the exact texture
and weight of what they once held.
How sacred that nakedness,
that opens us to the world.
I have grown so many new leaves.
That sacredness has never left.

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The Change

Overnight, the frost
took every pink zinnia
every creamy dahlia,
fading their colors to brown.
The nasturtiums have slumped
into dense wilted tangle.
The marigolds hold themselves tall
in a blackened and upright
surrender. For now,
the bright, fresh bouquets
I made yesterday are still
bright and fresh in their vases.
This beauty, we know, won’t stay.
The message is simple:
All that rises passes away.
I see it in these hands
that planted and watered
and weeded and picked—
my skin now wrinkled and thin
as frost-withered petals.
Here: the chance to witness
my own rising and passing.
How natural to age, to die.
The flowers in the vase will wilt.
With every day, so do I.
Such strange gift. First
the joy of putting the self
in service to making something
beautiful. Then, beyond joy,
the grace in learning to let it all go.

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A Scrap in Time


 
 
Something about the relentless beauty
of the dahlias this year makes me forget
lists and calls and news and aches as
I stand beside them in a splendor stupor,
watching them bloom in real time, not
wanting to miss a moment of the long stems
rising, the red color deepening then fading
from the petals as they age. I imagine a time lapse
begins, and the world’s winter white, then greening
again, and now a hundred years pass,
now five hundred, a thousand, and the garden
bed is gone and the fence is gone and
the trees and the ditch and the home
are gone, and there’s no way to know
this was once a place where dahlias grew.
Is it any wonder, then, I call to you, ask you
to come stand here with me to watch
the dahlias open themselves to the sun,
each petal a hymn to the present,
a history soon to be forgotten, a shimmer in time
we might put in a vase and marvel as
all around it the whole world spins.

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One Glorious


 
 
no use sipping this sunset—
I guzzle and immediately
I’m tipsy on pink

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All at Once


 
 
Walking alone into the dark,
my fear comes with me.
I feel it small and hard
in my belly like a tiny grenade
the mind has conjured
in case I need protection.
Meanwhile, all around me
the night is peaceful.
The dark spills its generous ink
into every open space.
Crickets rub their legs in bright music.
The misty rain makes no sound.
But the mind is not convinced
the night is safe. It clenches tighter
around its fear. It does no good
to tell the mind not to worry.
Hello, tiny grenade.
I carry it with me as I walk
through a field of fireflies—
and I’m laid bare by the beauty
I find there—thousands of glittering sparks.
Isn’t it a marvel how a person
can be both clenching and opening
at the very same time
while moving alone through the dark?

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It’s like being made love to
by beauty—as if the slate
gray lake and the deep green leaves
and the scent of wild roses
and the sound of unseen birds
all lean in to kiss the eyelids,
the tip of the nose, the sensitive
curl of the ear. And the way
to kiss the beauty back—
be here.  

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What is it that shines through all this withering?
—Kim Rosen, “Grand Finale”
 
 
You would be embarrassed of my body.
You would never believe contentment
is possible with a belly this soft
and legs this thick, but sweetheart,
I promise you I love being alive
in this time-ripened body that still
carries me into the garden to plant
snap peas, this body that cradles
my grown girls, that explores
the familiar terrain of my husband,
that walks through spruce forests and thrills
at the scent of evergreen and rain.
It is so much easier now to be gentle
with myself, even easy to be gentle with you.
Easy to forgive you for thinking you needed
to starve these bones. The irony is
you never felt beautiful, did you, and now,
when I am so far from your ideal,
I’ve never felt more lovely—
which is to say there is something
inside, a radiance, that beacons through
the crumbling walls of the body,
and the real beauty is being in service
to that shine, becoming less and less
a vessel and more and more that light.

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That moment that opens
when the evening light
makes the whole field glow
so everything is luminous,
every blade, every leaf, every stone,
even the weeds, even the carcasses,
even the ones who are watching—
not to forget we can also be cruel,
can kill, can lie, can betray,
but oh, we can also be as receptive
as a field in the golden hour,
letting light pour through us until
we, too, are that radiant, that generous,
that willing to be in service to beauty.

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