Saturday, February 27, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Out of Dormancy
is an orange
opened on a plate
on the sill in the sun.
Or the failing cat
alive again come
morning. Or the dazzle
of sunlight silver
on branches one might
take for dead but not
at all and the sun's quick cameo after
wall upon wall of storm daring
try just try to catch me and I do
and am surprised, surprised.
Or pussy willow long forgotten
glinting fresh and new. Witch
hazel sure can do it too
silly and spiced and reaching
for the half moon in a sky so
blue blue blue. Sometimes
the littlest nudge will do
to bring perpetual
me back unstoppable
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Today I am sending out much love, infinite gratitude and deep appreciation to W. S. Merwin, definitive poet and certainly no stranger to Love. I offer these luminous lines of his as a
Valentine to you all,
in celebration of Love.
Today it was just a dry leaf that told me
I should live for love.
It wasn't the six birds sitting like little angels
in the white birch tree,
or the knife I use to carve my pear with.
It was a leaf, that had read Tolstoy, and Krishnamurti,
that had loved William James,
and put sweet Jesus under him where he could be safe forever.
"The world is so bright." he said. "You should see the light."
"The branch is necessary, but it is in the way."
"I am not afraid. I am never afraid."
Then he stretched his imaginary body
this way and that.
He weighs a half a gram, is brown and green,
with two large mold spots on one side, and a stem
that curls away, as if with a little pride,
and he could be easily swept up and forgotten,
but oh he taught me love for two good hours,
and helped me with starvation, and dread, and dancing.
As far as I'm concerned his grave is here
next to the telephone and the cupful of yellow pencils,
under the window, in the rich and lovely presence
of Franz Joseph Haydn and Domenico Scarlatti and Gustav Mahler
~W. S. Merwin
Friday, February 12, 2010
Excerpt from a Love Story II
This life is a light meant for burning.
I love: isn’t that enough? Isn’t it everything, really?
You ask me to choose you forever. I know nothing about forever. I only know there was a bird in my hand that flew, citrus bursting on my tongue, blood orange and pink in a ribbon across the pond before dark, and then quiet. Does that mean something, dear? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, this life is a light meant for burning. So I burn. And burn.