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Posts Tagged ‘surrender’

 

 

After all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it rain.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

And so after shouting

and whining and begging

and crying and whimpering,

simpering, weeping and sniveling,

sobbing and blubbering, bawling

and name calling, wailing

and flailing and thrashing

and sprawling, and after the threats

and after the bribes, after

loudly groaning and prostrated moaning,

at last she was quiet and felt

against her cheek the damp,

and she noticed the whole

world a-glistening and she

walked in the rain, hair wet,

clothes wet, and instead

of complaining, she began

listening, listening

to the humble, beautiful

song of rain.

 

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One Abandon

 

 

drenched in the downpour—

the feet, now reckless,

find a playground in every puddle

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One Surrender

 

 

hijacked by the moon

my heart stops trying to know better

and lets the light drive

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Lose something every day.

            —Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art”

 

 

Lose something every day, the poet said—

and how I laughed the first time that I read

her words. My keys? My gloves? My place in line?

My favorite socks? A name? My glass of wine?

I’ve got that down, I thought, and shook my head.

 

But then I thought of passing time, the threads

of dates unraveling—and how I try to wind

them back, reclaim those squandered hours as mine.

Lose something every day?

 

And then I thought of certainty, how wed

I am to thoughts, convictions, faith. Instead

of losing them, I cling. Then they confine.

Some things are better lost—my rigid mind,

my prejudice, old chains of shame, my dread—

lose something every day.

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playing referee

between the sun and clouds,

eventually I take off my stripes

to be a spectator instead—

how pleasant

without all that whistling

 

 

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without a map

I row my small canoe—

a leash of moonlight

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Sitting in the rain

in the dark

with three good tires

I think of Confucius,

who, when arrested

by accident didn’t fuss,

rather sat in his cell for five days

playing lute until his story

untangled and he

was set free.

It is dry in the car,

and though the radio works,

I do not turn it on.

I never learned

to play lute,

but sense that perhaps

I am being played, what

with this long neck,

with my deep round back,

with my body still learning

to open.

The rain keeps

inconsistent time

on the windshield.

It is not deliberately

that the world

throws rocks

in the road.

Or is it?

The dark is only

the dark.

I feel a lessening

of the tension,

a tuning,

and who is it

that pulls

the strings.

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Surrender is not like this highway

with its dotted lines and passing lanes

and its well-marked exit signs.

Surrender is more a dirt country road

where you’ve taken a turn

that doesn’t show up in the map.

And then run out of gas. And

get a flat. And then, when you think

it can’t get worse, you start

to giggle, then full belly laugh.

Yeah, surrender is something like that.

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throwing the compass

into the tall grass—

the feet giddy with possibility

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One Afternoon

 

 

 

Here is his ferocity—

how it opens him like a monsoon

here is your umbrella

fling it in the rain

let the flood rearrange you

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