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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

 

 

Part of me wants to give you

the book of answers, the solution key,

to help you know which decision, A, B, C or D,

will bring the most healing, the most happiness.

I no longer believe in such a book, such a key.

 

Instead I wish for you the peace

that comes only with surrender—

a word that sounds beyond reason

until it becomes beacon, becomes

north star, becomes map.

 

May you know for certain

that in every case, you are beloved.

May you know beyond doubt

that no matter what happens,

you always become more essential, more you.

 

 

 

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Hundreds of smooth red stones—

we gathered them that summer

and spent days carefully laying them out

into a wide and winding red path.

It had no real starting point, no destination.

We tucked white daisies between the rocks.

We said it was for the fairies.

I wouldn’t have said it then, in fact,

I hesitate today to say we didn’t believe in them.

They gave us so much purpose.

Even now, I’m following that path.

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yet another poem inspired by this composition by Erik Satie

 

 

You wonder why I haunt you

like moonlight, why I come to you

like morning fog, dream thick and cool,

why I steep myself into your thoughts

like bergamot in black tea.

You wonder why I seldom leave you,

why I slip into your silences

the way rye darkly slips into bread.

 

It is my work to give you shivers,

make you tremble, make you still.

It is my work to make you fall in love

with the darkness inside yourself. It is my work

to be the unexpected black swan, and you,

it is your work to be the night pond.

 

 

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IMG_5225

 

 

Truth serum cannot be made alone. We will begin with stories

in which there are red flowers, white flowers, maggots, gold.

Add walks in the woods where the walls of the gorge

still remember when they were plateau. Hours

of listening to the other voices of ourselves speaking.

Bright chime of a singing bowl. Scent of burnt toast.

Taste of wild muscadine. Snaps and laughter and scratch

of pen on paper. Acorns and snake skin and hazelwood.

There is truth here to be found, but no one

can serve it to you. You must choose it. And it’s slippery–

like your own handwriting that you later can’t read,

like wet leaves on a hill, like the sun that enters the grove,

then is gone.

 

*

Check out this great program here

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Try to praise the mutilated world

            —Adam Zagajewski

 

 

The cratered earth

and the blood stained shirts

and the men with guns

and the hate sharp words

and the sour rooms

that never see sun

and the rashes, the cancers

the blackened lungs

 

and still, there are paths

in Ohio woods

where upended trees

show elaborate roots

and the water seeps

in the ancient gorge,

and dead leaves fuel

whole dominions of soil

 

and though beauty

can be hard to reconcile,

worse to ignore it,

worse to look away,

worse in this mutilated world

to pretend we don’t have

ten thousand times ten thousand

reasons to praise.

 

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One Almost Miss

 

 

catching the plane—

five hours later this heart

still rushing to the gate

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When pregnant, it was clear

I was along for the ride with a miracle.

Sure, I could eat organic broccoli,

walk and eschew caffeine,

but that was just taking care

of the vessel. Life itself

was doing the real work.

 

Imagine my surprise today

to realize I’m still along for the ride.

How did I ever kid myself

that I was in charge?

And oh, the bliss today

to notice anew these hands,

these eyes, these feet!

What joy to see them again

as the miracle they are,

to offer them in service to life.

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Walking at Night

 

 

One way to open your eyes is to ask yourself, “What if I had never seen this before? What if I knew I would never see it again?

            —Rachel Carson

 

 

And so I memorize how it is

that the cheeks nearly freeze

but the body’s so warm,

how the river informs every measure

but the thoughts sift to silence,

how the body thrills

in its ability to swing one foot

in front of the other, how

walking is just another name

for recovering from falling,

how strange it seems now

that I was once afraid of the dark.

 

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When It Comes to Ideas

 

 

 

I am perhaps like the mama sheep

who rejects the lamb that is not her own—

snorts at it, won’t let it suckle,

shoves it away with her nose.

Though her own lamb was born lifeless,

though her teats are full to leaking,

she will have nothing to do with the alien.

It’s not the lamb’s fault it has the wrong scent,

just as it’s not the idea’s fault it was born

in another’s mind. It’s likely a good idea,

just needing a bit of nourishment.

 

But there are skilled herders who know the art

of grafting, who make of the dead lamb’s skin

a jacket and wrap it around the alien lamb,

tricking the ewe into taking it on as her own.

Then it’s a matter of bonding.

 

Don’t think I didn’t see you as you stripped the skin.

Don’t think I’m unaware of what you’ve done.

The truth is, I wanted to foster it, to claim it

as my own, to see it frolic in these fields of sage.

I was made for nurturing. It’s just that loss is difficult.

It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to say yes.

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One Disentanglement

 

 

casting a broken net—

I catch no fish,

but oh, the pull of the sea

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