Saturday, July 27, 2013

Waking This Morning by Muriel Rukeyser

Waking This Morning
By Muriel Rukeyser

Waking this morning,
a violent woman in the violent day
Past the line of memory
along the long body of your life
in which move childhood, youth, your lifetime of touch,
eyes, lips, chest, belly, sex, legs, to the waves of the sheet.
I look past the little plant
on the city windowsill
to the tall towers bookshaped, crushed together in greed,
the river flashing flowing corroded,
the intricate harbor and the sea, the wars, the moon, the
planets, all who people space
in the sun visible invisible.
African violets in the light
breathing, in a breathing universe.      I want strong peace,
and delight,
the wild good.
I want to make my touch poems:
to find my morning, to find you entire
alive moving among the anti-touch people.

I say across the waves of the air to you:
today once more
I will try to be non-violent
one more day
this morning, waking the world away
in the violent day.


Thank you, dearest Erin, for mentioning this poem to me.  I hunted it down because I don't think I've ever read it before and thoroughly enjoyed it.  I owe you one.  :-)

It's a much-needed rainy Saturday here in the humid swamps of luscious Louisiana.  (The dragonflies are dancing between raindrops, swirling and dive-bombing like glittering, winged jewels---one of the top perks of living near a swamp is their prolific presence.)  It's been pretty dry this summer, but not today.  There are few things more luxurious than waking to dark skies & rain on a day you don't have to get out of bed, but can lie there listening to the rain pattering on the roof and the sound of distant thunder.   

I have to get back to my reading.  Later!


"How many a (wo)man has dated a new era in his/her life from the reading of a book."  ~Henry David Thoreau, Walden


"A house without books is like a room without windows."  ~Heinrich Mann


Tuesday, July 23, 2013

A Few Words For the Visitor in the Parlor by Olena Kalytiak Davis

An old, lace-winged friend of mine...

A Few Words For The Visitor In The Parlor
by Olena Kalytiak Davis

Every time you wish the sky was something happening to your heart, you lose twice.

Mother kept sending me back to the kiosk. Where they wrapped the paper in fish. Pivovarov and the other artists, they were worried. The blood was Ukrainian and it was all over the place. Go and wash your face. No, no one said anything about auto-workers. I am simply saying to you what my mother said. I am simply saying what Pivovarov painted: Go and wash your face. People are coming soon. It is not good for them to see you looking like this.

I slept the afternoon, but you know what Breton says: I was not in the mood for visitors. Picture yourself inside that word. And yes, my house is a word, but my words, aren’t they words also? Today, the sky just wouldn’t happen. Today, I was blind sided. Neither pain, nor its powdered absence. Like most days, I became the kitchen sill. I’m simply saying what I always say: what is lace-winged cannot be strong.

My wedding dress hangs at the end of things. It’s the kind of thing you think while sitting on someone else’s couch. There is something elegant implied by length. Or: So this is a living room, what was I thinking. Grass stains where the peach-colored silk drank in the ground. But when I get home the urge to clean immediately leaves me. Alone, I can only think of visiting those plain and exotic places. Oh, my cloud covered heart.

She was a branch covered in hoarfrost. I must forgive myself. Something clings to the whore’s hem. Dear visitor: you divide your age in two then square it by a dying mother. I am always gathering her up in my arms. Believe me, you never forget someone that thin. You start remembering the way that summer lay differently on top of that year. The hood burns you. I tried driving as gently as I could, but you know, the road had last winter inside it, the winter before. That drive was painful, just look at her face. You remember because someone starts talking about time. Someone says time, time is like water. Someone says: There was once a living room made entirely of death.

Today, the sky was white. And the ground was white, too. Yet, I could tell them apart. They were that easy to distinguish.

*Bold sentences are two of my favorites ever... - Marion, brawling w/pain & losing
 From her amazingly perfect book:  "And Her Soul Out of Nothing" by Olena Kalytiak Davis


Sunday, July 14, 2013

The Patience of Ordinary Things by Pat Schneider

Rose after rain.

The Patience of Ordinary Things
by Pat Schneider

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
how the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
how the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
or toes. How soles of feet know
where they're supposed to be.
I've been thinking about the patience
of ordinary things, how clothes
wait respectfully in closets
and soap dries quietly in the dish,
and towels drink the wet
from the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

from 'Another River: New and Selected Poems'


The secret of life:  there are no ordinary things.  xo


"Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be."  ~Grandma Moses

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Dinner Plate Hibiscus

The first bloom. . . there is hope!!  I planted four colors: white, dark pink, light pink and red.  No matter how many flowers I plant, it always amazes me when they actually come up and grow.  :-)
Another miracle flower, my first Hibiscus.  It's magnificent in the morning sunlight.
Like day it's not there, and the next, this glorious flower.
Sun-dappled and juicy, it fills me with wonder.
As long as there is life, there is wonder:  flowers, birds, dragonflies, cicadas, cats, trees, clouds, sky, stars, moon, words, books, poetry, family, friends, love. . .
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud
was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."  ~Anais Nin

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Grief by Stephen Dobyns


by Stephen Dobyns

Trying to remember you
is like carrying water
in my hands a long distance
across sand. Somewhere people are waiting.
They have drunk nothing for days.

Your name was the food I lived on;
now my mouth is full of dirt and ash.
To say your name was to be surrounded
by feathers and silk; now, reaching out,
I touch glass and barbed wire.
Your name was the thread connecting my life;
now I am fragments on a tailor's floor.

I was dancing when I
learned of your death; may
my feet be severed from my body.

"Grief" by Stephen Dobyns, from Velocities