tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28942697335860824202024-03-06T00:07:13.549-05:00The PoetrycookerA Lyric Museum of Life and ArtPoetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.comBlogger520125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-847676280084858852018-02-20T11:52:00.001-05:002018-02-20T11:55:49.341-05:00On Things Eternal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It's been awhile -- many things have changed, but poetry, as always - like art, like love, like God, well it remains. </h3>
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Missed you guys. Here's something for today.</h3>
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(Sonnet 14)</h1>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/bxt-tWSF-Ko?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Annie Spratt</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/search/photos/eternity?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr>
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<pre> </pre>
<pre>Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy;
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.</pre>
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<pre> </pre>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpZxlAGPBWQU_x_2-lDT1KRBKYG3Z9Hei6QrtegwuSdwmWuoV27KNC4tsxuUz7qp_4BJKREK59mZt2KBY1LJw3fW9_3WQkKQrPZ1QMXHvMSi4Ma1YxZD-IoVm3kRyGitRAZLnXFoLvq4/s1600/51K1MSnHGlL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="327" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpZxlAGPBWQU_x_2-lDT1KRBKYG3Z9Hei6QrtegwuSdwmWuoV27KNC4tsxuUz7qp_4BJKREK59mZt2KBY1LJw3fW9_3WQkKQrPZ1QMXHvMSi4Ma1YxZD-IoVm3kRyGitRAZLnXFoLvq4/s200/51K1MSnHGlL.jpg" width="130" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sonnets-Pelican-Shakespeare-William-ebook/dp/B06XVWT34D/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1519145426&sr=8-1&keywords=Sonnet+14">Bring him home</a></td></tr>
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<pre> </pre>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="node-title"><a href="https://www.poets.org/node/45492" target="_top"><span itemprop="name">William Shakespeare</span></a></span></span></span></h2>
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Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-76858196608508490842016-12-07T11:42:00.000-05:002016-12-07T11:42:53.317-05:00A Guide to Remembering Your Elements:<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span itemprop="name">Remember</span></h1>
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<span itemprop="name">By: Joy Haro</span></div>
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<span itemprop="name"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqZOVl4pq5B_gxwyyCPnzXK8sCX_GvKpzShp3mGessVoKQ5VRLGInE985bIG34V3wcXd7CZyMm-Q9C3EQl9XoT6VK-0KUSiSIXGcANytz91N8sszsNEaAzuUZVCLEEPK-eddGZrildBEM/s1600/Elements.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqZOVl4pq5B_gxwyyCPnzXK8sCX_GvKpzShp3mGessVoKQ5VRLGInE985bIG34V3wcXd7CZyMm-Q9C3EQl9XoT6VK-0KUSiSIXGcANytz91N8sszsNEaAzuUZVCLEEPK-eddGZrildBEM/s320/Elements.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/12284142/search?context_type=search&context_user=bruisedteeth&query=nature%2C+person%2C+skin" target="_blank">We Heart It</a><br /><br /></td></tr>
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Remember the sky that you were born under,</div>
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know each of the star’s stories.</div>
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Remember the moon, know who she is.</div>
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Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the</div>
</span><span style="font-family: "Poets Electra Web", "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 24px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
strongest point of time. Remember sundown</div>
</span><span style="font-family: "Poets Electra Web", "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 24px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
and the giving away to night.</div>
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Remember your birth, how your mother struggled</div>
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to give you form and breath. You are evidence of</div>
</span><span style="font-family: "Poets Electra Web", "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 24px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.</div>
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Remember your father. He is your life, also.</div>
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Remember the earth whose skin you are:</div>
</span><span style="font-family: "Poets Electra Web", "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 24px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth</div>
</span><span style="font-family: "Poets Electra Web", "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 24px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
brown earth, we are earth.</div>
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Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their</div>
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tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,</div>
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listen to them. They are alive poems.</div>
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Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the</div>
</span><span style="font-family: "Poets Electra Web", "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 24px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
origin of this universe.</div>
</span><span style="font-family: "Poets Electra Web", "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 24px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Remember you are all people and all people</div>
</span><span style="font-family: "Poets Electra Web", "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 24px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
are you.</div>
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Remember you are this universe and this</div>
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universe is you.</div>
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Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.</div>
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Remember language comes from this.</div>
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Remember the dance language is, that life is.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXofzcrHE5FLh266kRFT_OifeBSdNkAVZx8iYn0SiKsOtYJpt0HMFLFY6aiLYJxO8A9O3L92FgJgIcdivoE4PMxgZLFBalyDstdiPMV8It_0jwP9FPPCGcskuuU0c8kq5ELuaE9eRb584/s1600/41x7o%252BEX8VL._SX332_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>Remember<br />.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Conflict-Resolution-Holy-Beings-Poems/dp/039324850X/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Support the Poet</a></td></tr>
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Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-45054721768412614672015-10-27T19:54:00.002-04:002015-10-27T20:10:22.757-04:00Eloquent Graffiti<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This one's goes out an old friend...</div>
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The Trapeze Swinger
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.bhmpics.com/girl_boy_waiting-wallpapers.html" target="_blank">Credit</a></td></tr>
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Listen Here:</div>
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<strong> </strong>Please remember me, happily</div>
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By the rosebush laughing<br />
With bruises on my chin, the time when<br />
We counted every black car passing<br />
<br />
Your house beneath the hill and up until<br />
Someone caught us in the kitchen<br />
With maps, a mountain range, a piggy bank<br />
A vision too removed to mention<br />
<br />
But please remember me, fondly<br />
I heard from someone you're still pretty<br />
And then they went on to say that the Pearly Gates<br />
Had some eloquent graffiti<br />
<br />
Like 'We'll meet again' and 'Fuck the man'<br />
And 'Tell my mother not to worry'<br />
And angels with their great handshakes<br />
But always done in such a hurry<br />
<br />
And please remember me, at Halloween<br />
Making fools of all the neighbors<br />
Our faces painted white, by midnight<br />
We'd forgotten one another<br />
<br />
And when the morning came I was ashamed<br />
Only now it seems so silly<br />
That season left the world and then returned<br />
And now you're lit up by the city<br />
<br />
So please remember me, mistakenly<br />
In the window of the tallest tower<br />
Call, then pass us by but much too high<br />
To see the empty road at happy hour<br />
<br />
Gleam and resonate just like the gates<br />
Around the Holy Kingdom<br />
With words like, 'Lost and found' and 'Don't look down'<br />
And 'Someone save temptation'<br />
<br />
And please remember me as in the dream<br />
We had as rug burned babies<br />
Among the fallen trees and fast asleep<br />
Beside the lions and the ladies<br />
<br />
That called you what you like and even might<br />
Give a gift for your behavior<br />
A fleeting chance to see a trapeze<br />
Swinger high as any savior<br />
<br />
But please remember me, my misery<br />
And how it lost me all I wanted<br />
Those dogs that love the rain and chasing trains<br />
The colored birds above there running<br />
<br />
In circles round the well and where it spells<br />
On the wall behind St. Peter<br />
So bright on cinder gray in spray paint<br />
'Who the hell can see forever?'<br />
<br />
And please remember me, seldomly<br />
In the car behind the carnival<br />
My hand between your knees, you turn from me<br />
And said the trapeze act was wonderful<br />
<br />
But never meant to last, the clowns that passed<br />
Saw me just come up with anger<br />
When it filled with circus dogs, the parking lot<br />
Had an element of danger<br />
<br />
So please remember me, finally<br />
And all my uphill clawing<br />
My dear, but if I make the Pearly Gates<br />
I'll do my best to make a drawing<br />
<br />
Of God and Lucifer, a boy and girl<br />
An angel kissin' on a sinner<br />
A monkey and a man, a marching band<br />
All around the frightened trapeze swinger<br />
<br />
-<strong>Iron and Wine </strong><br />
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Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-23728207069993793402015-08-08T13:50:00.000-04:002015-08-08T13:50:23.322-04:00On a Journey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This sort of thing has been on my mind these days - we all have so many opportunities to start over, to make things better, to begin again. Blessed are the folks that are able to muster up the courage to say "I have another chance - just this one more chance." And blessed are those who say , "yes, please take it." It takes a strength that is in all of us, but a compassion that is almost not of this world. We all have times when we are called upon to start over. Times to forgive, and be forgiven - as hard as it is to make mistakes, and as scary as it is to explore new opportunities, it a way to live forever while being born into life again and again - an <i>Ephemeral Stream, </i>if you will. A baptismal font that stretches and winds back into forever, time and again, bringing with it new waters that never return, but that flow through on through that ravine until the end of time.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://society6.com/bronsonsneling#_=_" target="_blank">Invest in the photography.</a></td></tr>
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<h1 class="page__title title" id="page-title" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #fcf9f9; font-family: 'Poets Electra Web Italic', 'Poets Electra Web', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 38px; font-weight: 500; letter-spacing: -2px; line-height: 1.20301em; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 10px; text-align: center;">
Ephemeral Stream</h1>
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<span style="background-color: #fcf9f9; font-family: founders_grotesk_textlight, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;">Elizabeth Willis</span></h1>
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<pre style="font-family: 'Poets Electra Web', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; margin-bottom: 1.26316em; margin-top: 1.26316em; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">This is the way water
thinks about the desert.
The way the thought of water
gives you something
to stumble on. A ghost river.
A sentence trailing off
toward lower ground.
A finger pointing
at the rest of the show.
I wanted to read it.
I wanted to write a poem
and call it “Ephemeral Stream”
because you made of this
imaginary creek
a hole so deep
it looked like a green eye
taking in the storm,
a poem interrupted
by forgiveness.
It’s not over yet.
A dream can spend
all night fighting off
the morning. Let me
start again. A stream
may be a branch or a beck,
a crick or kill or lick,
a syke, a runnel. It pours
through a corridor. The door
is open. The keys
are on the dashboard. </pre>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Meteoric-Flowers-Wesleyan-Poetry-Series/dp/08195684">Invest in the poetry.</a></td></tr>
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Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-21080755925258675632015-07-01T15:33:00.003-04:002015-07-01T15:34:00.890-04:00On Glancing but not Turning:<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Oath</h2>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://weheartit.com/" target="_blank">*</a></td></tr>
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<span class="fullname_search"><strong>Rosemary Tonks</strong></span></div>
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I swear that I would not go back</div>
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To pole the glass fishpools where the rough breath lies </div>
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That built the Earth – there, under the heavy trees </div>
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With their bark that’s full of grocer’s spice, </div>
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Not for an hour – although my heart</div>
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Moves, thirstily, to drink the thought – would I </div>
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Go back to run my boat</div>
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On the brown rain that made it slippery, </div>
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I would not for a youth</div>
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Return to ignorance, and be the wildfowl</div>
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Thrown about by the dark water seasons</div>
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With an ink-storm of dark moods against my soul, </div>
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And no firm ground inside my breast,</div>
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Only the breath of God that stirs</div>
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Scent-kitchens of refreshing trees,</div>
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And the shabby green cartilage of play upon my knees. </div>
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With no hard earth inside my breast</div>
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To hold a Universe made out of breath,</div>
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Slippery as fish with their wet mortar made of mirrors </div>
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I laid a grip of glass upon my youth. </div>
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And not for the waterpools would I go back</div>
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To a Universe unreal as breath – although I use</div>
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The great muscle of my heart</div>
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To thirst like a drunkard for the scent-storm of the trees.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bedouin-London-Evening-Collected-Poems/dp/1780372388" target="_blank">Purchase the Poetry</a></td></tr>
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Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-69177842399616496632015-06-30T08:15:00.001-04:002015-06-30T08:22:15.643-04:00Join The Poetrycooker in Supporting the Make-A-Wish Foundation - Walk for Wishes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 7.5pt;">Hey guys it's The Poetrycooker, I know it's been awhile, and I promise I'll be back soon, but I want to take a minute to tell you guys about something that's been super important to me. Many of you may not know this but I am a proud, 30 year-old former Wish Kid, and this is my story…</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qZysNfp1zMZ4H_yTel9FB1QpywyFxKsI5aqBpkgbXO_BiUmkywjHQyTwE2Gbu__FIPqM2Boj4_pA3K84-lIUdnQ3yzkR0Fu3RsGLbXaVbYyGChtosNK_HGnaiPUREsB_4fu-AO0thpE/s1600/Screenshot_2015-06-23-16-50-35%257E2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qZysNfp1zMZ4H_yTel9FB1QpywyFxKsI5aqBpkgbXO_BiUmkywjHQyTwE2Gbu__FIPqM2Boj4_pA3K84-lIUdnQ3yzkR0Fu3RsGLbXaVbYyGChtosNK_HGnaiPUREsB_4fu-AO0thpE/s320/Screenshot_2015-06-23-16-50-35%257E2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 7.5pt;">You guys, this organization has done so much to touch me, and I will be forever indebted to the magic that they brought to one of the darker corners of my life. In it that corner is a condition called Neurofibromatosis, and in this corner was pain, self-doubt and questions. But once lit, that corner also had in it strength, grit, joy and clarity. It was up to me to light up this corner, just as it is to every sufferer to light up their own darkness and find strength in it. I guess as strange as it sounds, I am grateful for my condition because without it I wouldn’t be the strong person that I am today.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbg0mVBZKEyotEd0l5H1Q3WUVtAy9MwGgKJCE-k8a4iubjpjkrZM2p1ZpZHPnDgQS8iboN4ta1hCqFgOm_YIrgcGCGE07bbkZ0prAYgRQn1_9tOs7zw9_JpSA-gUCqsZhNwyK-JbGB7DM/s1600/maw2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbg0mVBZKEyotEd0l5H1Q3WUVtAy9MwGgKJCE-k8a4iubjpjkrZM2p1ZpZHPnDgQS8iboN4ta1hCqFgOm_YIrgcGCGE07bbkZ0prAYgRQn1_9tOs7zw9_JpSA-gUCqsZhNwyK-JbGB7DM/s320/maw2.jpg" width="164" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 7.5pt;">But when you are young, sometimes it is hard to see the light. At 17 - an age when most kids are feeling the darkness of self-doubt anyway, Make-a-Wish brought me that light. They brought it to my family, and because of that I feel indebted to bring that light into the corners of other children and families that are facing the heartache and doubt that comes with a child who has a terminal illness or life-threatening condition. 13 years ago when my family was contacted by Make-a-Wish, I couldn’t believe it. Surely somebody was worse off, surely somebody deserved it more. But no, I was assured that I was chosen – that my family was chosen. I knew that I wanted us to all do something together. I didn’t think there would ever be a way that I could make up for all the worry my parents experienced, for all the heartache they felt or for all the money they spent carting me around Duke University or Georgetown Hospital. I also had a much younger sister and I knew, surely, that there were times when she must have taken a backseat to my condition. This wish was as much theirs as it was mine. Realizing our shared love of the water, and of adventure (I was never babied due to my condition), I decided to wish for a Caribbean Cruise for the four of us. It was a great time – full of fun and shows and adventures. We rode a limo more than 100 miles to the airport and my sister and I flew on a plane for the first time! We went parasailing and swam with dolphins, we ate snails and lobster and drank root beer floats, and we forgot about everything else. Then I left for college. Everything was perfect. It was a perfect way to end my childhood. It was how I will always remember it.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 7.5pt;">I want to continue to bring light like this to other families. This year will mark my second time participating in the Walk for Wishes (I ran!), and I am again asking for help. To those of you who donated several years ago – thank you, thank you! You are angels. I ask that this year you challenge your friends and family to donate to Make-a-Wish through supporting me in this September’s event. I promise I will make you proud. (Link is below)</span><br />
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<a href="http://site.wish.org/site/TR/WalkForWishes/General?px=1527698&pg=personal&fr_id=1690#.VZKJvo3bJbU" target="_blank">Katie's Walk for Wishes Page</a><br />
(Opens in a new window)<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 7.5pt;">Much Love and God Bless,</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 7.5pt;">Katie</span></div>
Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-45129842676266098852015-04-04T01:08:00.002-04:002015-04-04T01:10:34.533-04:00On All Our Gifts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I have featured this poem on my blog before, but I've not read it out loud yet, I think its time...</div>
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<h1 class="page__title title" id="page-title" style="text-align: center;">
You Can’t Have It All</h1>
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<span class="field-content"><span class="node-title">Barbara Ras</span></span></div>
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But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands<br />
gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old finger<br />
on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.<br />
You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look<br />
of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite<br />
every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August,<br />
you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love,<br />
though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam<br />
that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys<br />
until you realize foam’s twin is blood.<br />
You can have the skin at the center between a man’s legs,<br />
so solid, so doll-like. You can have the life of the mind,<br />
glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness,<br />
never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who’ll tell you<br />
all roads narrow at the border.<br />
You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,<br />
and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the grave<br />
where your father wept openly. You can’t bring back the dead,<br />
but you can have the words <i>forgive</i> and <i>forget</i> hold hands<br />
as if they meant to spend a lifetime together. And you can be grateful<br />
for makeup, the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, grateful<br />
for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels<br />
sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts,<br />
for passion fruit, for saliva. You can have the dream,<br />
the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.<br />
You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,<br />
at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping<br />
of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.<br />
You can’t count on grace to pick you out of a crowd<br />
but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,<br />
how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,<br />
until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,<br />
and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind<br />
as real as Africa. And when adulthood fails you,<br />
you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond<br />
of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas<br />
your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.<br />
There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother’s,<br />
it will always whisper, you can’t have it all,<br />
but there is this.<br />
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Photo Credit: We Heart It.<br />
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Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-36141700213189666932015-04-03T16:36:00.003-04:002015-04-03T16:38:22.357-04:00A Reading On All Our Safties<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Sanctuary</div>
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By Jean Valentine</div>
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<i>People pray to each other. The way I say "you" to someone else, <br />respectfully, intimately, desperately. The way someone says <br />"you" to me, hopefully, expectantly, intensely ... <br />—Huub Oosterhuis </i></div>
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You who I don’t know I don’t know how to talk to you </div>
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—What is it like for you there? </div>
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Here ... well, wanting solitude; and talk; friendship— </div>
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The uses of solitude. To imagine; to hear. </div>
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Learning braille. To imagine other solitudes. </div>
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But they will not be mine; </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
to wait, in the quiet; not to scatter the voices— </div>
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<br />
</div>
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What are you afraid of? </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
What will happen. All this leaving. And meetings, yes. But death. </div>
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What happens when you die? </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
“... not scatter the voices,” </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Drown out. Not make a house, out of my own words. To be quiet in </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
another throat; other eyes; listen for what it is like there. What </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
word. What silence. Allowing. Uncertain: to drift, in the </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
restlessness ... Repose. To run like water— </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
What is it like there, right now? </div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Listen: the crowding of the street; the room. Everyone hunches in </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
against the crowding; holding their breath: against dread. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
What do you dread? </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
What happens when you die? </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
What do you dread, in this room, now? </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Not listening. Now. Not watching. Safe inside my own skin. </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
To die, not having listened. Not having asked ... To have scattered </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
life. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Yes I know: the thread you have to keep finding, over again, to </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
follow it back to life; I know. Impossible, sometimes.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXr1bQlGbpvkCjLsm-iCpRxjAKsB-wRnASMyHwMKXt9-Ukur2ErzCEOpKt2a9HL1WktfMKkbtsYrO87pMCXzKzUhFn0ZEzD_lzPEUjELLzBPnmcEJfgV6efrzrYyWYJJvskqyEIw3zLHY/s1600/untitled+(3).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXr1bQlGbpvkCjLsm-iCpRxjAKsB-wRnASMyHwMKXt9-Ukur2ErzCEOpKt2a9HL1WktfMKkbtsYrO87pMCXzKzUhFn0ZEzD_lzPEUjELLzBPnmcEJfgV6efrzrYyWYJJvskqyEIw3zLHY/s1600/untitled+(3).png" height="200" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span class="a-size-large" id="productTitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0819567124/ref=asc_df_08195671243606166?smid=ATVPDKIKX0DER&tag=pg-1583-86-20&linkCode=df0&creative=395097&creativeASIN=0819567124" target="_blank">Enjoy Supporting the Author: Door in the Mountain: New and Collected Poems, 1965-2003</a></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Photo Credit: We Heart It.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span class="a-size-large" id="productTitle"></span> </div>
</div>
Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-53449392680486710772015-03-04T23:55:00.005-05:002015-03-04T23:55:44.190-05:00On the Journey of a Moment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
Scene</h1>
<div class="tabs-poem" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="tabs-poem">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Xena | via Tumblr" class="full-size" height="400" src="http://data3.whicdn.com/images/158524025/large.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="266" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/158524025/via/jackalopearrow" target="_blank">*</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div align="center" class="tabs-poem">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="fullname_search">Maxine Chernoff</span> </div>
<div class="epigraph" style="text-align: center;">
<i></i><br /></div>
<div class="epigraph" style="text-align: center;">
<i>The cinema is a specific language.<br /> — Christian Metz</i></div>
<div class="epigraph">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="epigraph">
</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
What the body might guess,</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
what the hand requests,</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
what language assumes</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
becomes amulet,</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
which is to say</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
I am carrying your face</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
in a locket in a box</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
to a virtual location</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
guarded by kestrels,</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
suggesting the scene’s</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
geography of love and dirt,</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
trees ripe with darkness</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
and bones’ white luster.</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
In the moonlit blue house,</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
where snow won’t fall</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
unless called upon,</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
grace enters as requested,</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
lands next to you, grasped,</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
as if love were a reflex</div>
<div class="poem" style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="data:image/jpeg;base64,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" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
simple as weather.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8sBvWzJTUFSQ1wgX3nXDGJ5eC_fsWo-F4O2fr3pYIIoAURTilWDkjW8khgnSwuUWQ6MrHx-kQE3RUwMr9k8DUk2WGd9VcGkbCQvYo_bo1ufsxklQVJNnaD272acx7BpNBk8lo5h2NcY/s1600/untitled+(2).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8sBvWzJTUFSQ1wgX3nXDGJ5eC_fsWo-F4O2fr3pYIIoAURTilWDkjW8khgnSwuUWQ6MrHx-kQE3RUwMr9k8DUk2WGd9VcGkbCQvYo_bo1ufsxklQVJNnaD272acx7BpNBk8lo5h2NcY/s1600/untitled+(2).png" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Support the poet.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
</div>
Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-81118866365023258192015-02-25T01:01:00.000-05:002015-02-27T00:19:01.564-05:00On The Future: A Reading<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-9486044499640434872015-02-22T21:52:00.001-05:002015-02-22T21:53:35.065-05:00On Why You Should... <div align="center"><a title="*" href="http://weheartit.com/entry/164712412/search?context_type=search&context_user=nadira8everythingilike&query=hope" target="_blank"><img class="full-size" alt="Quote" src="http://data3.whicdn.com/images/164712412/large.jpg"></a><div align="left"></div></div>Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-12230834409731540192015-02-19T15:05:00.000-05:002015-02-19T15:38:36.091-05:00On The Things We Sing About<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Hymn to Life</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
James Schuyler</h3>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="I need you now " class="full-size" src="http://data2.whicdn.com/images/133756339/large.jpg" height="400" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="266" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/133756339/via/jackalopearrow" target="_blank">*</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The wind rests its cheek upon the ground and feels the cool damp </div>
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And lifts its head with twigs and small dead blades of grass </div>
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Pressed into it as you might at the beach rise up and brush away </div>
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The sand. The day is cool and says, “I’m just staying overnight.” </div>
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The world is filled with music, and in between the music, silence </div>
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And varying the silence all sorts of sounds, natural and man made: </div>
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There goes a plane, some cars, geese that honk and, not here, but </div>
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Not so far away, a scream so rending that to hear it is to be </div>
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Never again the same. “Why, this is hell.” Out of the death breeding </div>
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Soil, here, rise emblems of innocence, snowdrops that struggle </div>
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Easily into life and hang their white enamel heads toward the dirt </div>
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And in the yellow grass are small wild crocuses from hills goats </div>
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Have cropped to barrenness. The corms come by mail, are planted. </div>
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Then do their thing: to live! To live! So natural and so hard </div>
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Hard as it seems it must be for green spears to pierce the all but </div>
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Frozen mold and insist that they too, like mouse-eared chickweed, </div>
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Will live. The spears lengthen, the bud appears and spreads, its </div>
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Seed capsule fattens and falls, the green turns yellowish and withers </div>
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Stretched upon the ground. In Washington, magnolias were in bud. In </div>
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Charlottesville early bulbs were up, brightening the muck. Tomorrow </div>
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Will begin another spring. No one gets many, one at a time, like a long </div>
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Awaited letter that one day comes. But it may not say what you hoped </div>
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Or distraction robs it of what it once would have meant. Spring comes </div>
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And the winter weather, here, may hold. It is arbitrary, like the plan </div>
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Of Washington, D.C. Avenues and circles in asphalt web and no </div>
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One gets younger: which is not, for the young, true, discovering new </div>
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Freedoms at twenty, a relief not to be a teen-ager anymore. One of us </div>
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Had piles, another water on the knee, a third a hernia—a strangulated </div>
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Hernia is one of life’s less pleasant bits of news—and only </div>
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One, at twenty, moved easily through all the galleries to pill </div>
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Free sleep. Oh, it’s not all that bad. The sun shines on my hand </div>
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And the myriad lines that criss-cross tell the story of nearly fifty </div>
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Years. Sorry, it’s too long to relate. Once, when I was young, I </div>
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Awoke at first light and sitting in a rocking chair watched the sun </div>
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Come up beyond the houses across the street. Another time I stood </div>
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At the cables of a liner and watched the wake turning and </div>
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Turning upon itself. Another time I woke up and in a bottle </div>
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On a chest of drawers the thoughtful doctor had left my tonsils. I </div>
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Didn’t keep them. The turning of the globe is not so real to us </div>
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As the seasons turning and the days that rise out of early gray </div>
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—The world is all cut-outs then—and slip or step steadily down </div>
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The slopes of our lives where the emotions and needs sprout. “I </div>
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Need you,” tree, that dominates this yard, thick-waisted, tall </div>
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And crook branched. Its bark scales off like that which we forget: </div>
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Pain, an introduction at a party, what precisely happened umpteen </div>
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Years or days or hours ago. And that same blue jay returns, or perhaps </div>
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It is another. All jays are one to me. But not the sun which seems at </div>
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Each rising new, as though in the night it enacted death and rebirth, </div>
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As flowers seem to. The roses this June will be different roses </div>
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Even though you cut an armful and come in saying, “Here are the roses,” </div>
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As though the same blooms had come back, white freaked with red </div>
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And heavily scented. Or a cut branch of pear blooms before its time, </div>
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“Forced.” Time brings us into bloom and we wait, busy, but wait </div>
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For the unforced flow of words and intercourse and sleep and dreams </div>
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In which the past seems to portend a future which is just more </div>
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Daily life. The cat has a ripped ear. He fights, he fights all </div>
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The tom cats all the time. There are blood gouts on a velvet seat. </div>
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Easily sponged off: but these red drops on a book of Stifter’s, will </div>
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I remember and say at some future time, “Oh, yes, that was the day </div>
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Hodge had a torn ear and bled on the card table?” Poor </div>
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Hodge, battered like an old car. Silence flows into my mind. It </div>
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Is spring. It is also still really winter. Not a day when you say, </div>
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“What a beautiful spring day.” A day like twilight or evening when </div>
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You think, “I meant to watch the sun set.” And then comes on </div>
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To rain. “You’ve got to take,” says the man at the store, “the rough </div>
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With the smooth.” A window to the south is rough with raindrops </div>
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That, caught in the screen, spell out untranslatable glyphs. A story </div>
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Not told: so much not understood, a sight, an insight, and you pass on, </div>
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Another day for each day is subjective and there is a totality of days </div>
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As there are as many to live it. The day lives us and in exchange </div>
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We it: after snowball time, a month, March, of fits and starts, winds, </div>
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Rain, spring hints and wintry arrears. The weather pays its check, </div>
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Like quarreling in a D.C. hotel, “I won’t quarrel about it, but I made </div>
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No local calls.” Strange city, broad and desolating, monuments </div>
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Rearing up and offices like monuments and crowds lined up to see </div>
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The White House inside. “We went to see the White House. It was lovely.” </div>
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Not so strange though as the cemetery with guttering flame and </div>
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Admirals and generals with bigger gravestones than the lesser fry </div>
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Below Lee’s house, false marble pillars and inside all so </div>
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Everyday, in every room a shawl tossed untidily upon a chair or bed </div>
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Created no illusion of lived-in-ness. But the periwinkles do, in beds </div>
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That flatten and are starred blue-violet, a retiring flower loved, </div>
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It would seem, of the dead, so often found where they congregate. A </div>
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Quote from Aeschylus: I forget. All, all is forgotten gradually and </div>
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One wonders if these ideas that seem handed down are truly what they were? </div>
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An idea may mutate like a plant, and what was once held basic truth </div>
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Become an idle thought. like, “Shall we plant some periwinkles there </div>
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By that bush? They’re so to be depended on.” The wind shakes the screen </div>
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And all the raindrops on it streak and run in stems. It’s colder. </div>
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The crocuses close up. The snowdrops are brushed with mud. The sky </div>
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Colors itself rosily behind gray-black and the rain falls through </div>
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The basketball hoop on a garage, streaking its backboard with further </div>
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Trails of rust, a lovely color to set with periwinkle violet-blue. </div>
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And the trees shiver and shudder in the light rain blasts from off </div>
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The ocean. The street wet reflects the breakup of the clouds </div>
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On its face, driving over sky with a hissing sound. The car </div>
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Slides slightly and in the west appear streaks of different green: </div>
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A lid lifted briefly on the spring. Then the moon burns through </div>
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Racing clouds, its aureole that of rings of oil on water in a harbor </div>
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Bubbling up from an exhaust. Clear the sky. Beside a rim of moon. </div>
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Three stars and only three and one planet. So under lilacs unleaved </div>
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Lie a clump of snowdrops and one purple crocus. Purple. A polka-dotted </div>
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Color little girls are fond of: “See my new dess!” and she twirls </div>
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On one foot. Then, crossed, bursts into tears. Smiles and rain, like </div>
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These passing days in which buds swell, unseen as yet, waiting </div>
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For the elms to color their further out most twigs, only the willow </div>
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Gleams yellow. Life is hard. Some are strong, some weak, most </div>
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Untested. These useless truths blow about the yard the day after </div>
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Rain the soft sunlight making softer shadows on the faded lawn. </div>
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The world looks so old in the spring, laid out under the sky. One </div>
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Gull coasts by, unexpected as a kiss on the nape of the neck. These </div>
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Days need birds and so they come, a flock of ducks, and a bunch of </div>
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Small fluffy unnamed balls that hide in hedges and make a racket. </div>
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“The gift of life,” as though, existing in expectancy and then </div>
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Someone came up and said, “Here,” or, “Happy Birthday.” It is more </div>
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Mysterious than that, pierced by blue or running in the rain </div>
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Or simply lying down to read. Writing a postponed letter which may </div>
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Bring no pleasure: arduous truths to tell. And if you thought March was bad </div>
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Consider April, early April, wet snow falling into blue squills </div>
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That underneath a beech make an illusory lake, a haze of blue </div>
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With depth to it. That is like pain, ordinary household pain, </div>
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Like piles, or bumping against a hernia. All the signs are set for A OK </div>
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A day to visit the National Gallery—Velázquez, Degas—but, and </div>
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What a but, with water on the knee “You’ll need a wheelchair, Mummy.” </div>
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Coasting among the masterpieces, of what use are they? <em>Angel with a </em></div>
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<em>Hurdy-Gurdy</em> or this young man in dun clothes who holds his hat so that </div>
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The red lining shows and glows. And in the sitting room people sit </div>
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And rest their feet and talk of where they’ve been, motels and Monticello, </div>
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Dinner in the Fiji Room. Someone forgets a camera. Each day forgetting: </div>
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What is there so striking to remember? The rain stops. April shines </div>
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A little, stormily, the ocean off there makes its freight car noise </div>
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Or rattles with catarrh and asks to have its nose wiped. Gray descends. </div>
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An illuminous penetration of unbright light that seeps and coats </div>
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The ragged lawn and spells out bare spots and winter fallen branches. </div>
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Yardwork. And now the yardwork is over (it is never over), today’s </div>
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Stint anyway. Odd jobs, that stretch ahead, wide and mindless as </div>
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Pennsylvania Avenue or the bridge to Arlington, crossed and recrossed </div>
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And there the Lincoln Memorial crumbles. It looks so solid: it won’t </div>
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Last. The impermanence of permanence, is that all there is? To look </div>
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And see the plane tree. Its crooked branches brush the ground, rear </div>
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In its age, older than any of us, destined, if all goes well with it, </div>
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To outlast us all. Does one then resent the plane tree, host </div>
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To cardinals? I hear them call. Plaintively, in the mating season. </div>
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Why should a white city dog my thoughts? Vast, arid, a home to many, </div>
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So strange in its unamiability. Stony city laid out on an heroic plan, </div>
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Why are you there? Various answers present themselves, likely </div>
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As squills. It doesn’t really matter, for instance, to miss the spring. </div>
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For this is spring, this mud and swelling fruit tree buds, furred </div>
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On the apple trees. And yet it still might snow: it’s been known </div>
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Falling like cherry blossom petals around the Reflecting Pool, a sight </div>
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To see. And there are sights to hear, music from a phonograph, pop </div>
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Or classical, please choose one or both. It doesn’t matter. What matters </div>
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Is how the light becomes entrapped in a dusty screen, masking out </div>
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The view into the depths of the garage where the cars are stalled like oxen. </div>
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Day, suddenly sunny and warming up for more, I would like to stroke you </div>
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As one strokes a cat and feels the ridgy skull beneath the fur and tickles </div>
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It behind its ears. The cat twists its head and moves it toward your fingers </div>
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Like the lifting thighs of someone fucked, moving up to meet the stroke. </div>
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The sun strokes all now in this zone, reaching in through windows to jell </div>
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Glue in jars (that takes time)—may I send you a warmed bottle of Pliobond? </div>
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It is on this desk and—here’s the laugh—I don’t know who put it there. </div>
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“This is something he will like, or use.” Meantime, those branches go </div>
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Ungathered up. I hate fussing with nature and would like the world to be </div>
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All weeds. I see it from the train, citybound, how the yuccas and chicory </div>
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Thrive. So much messing about, why not leave the world alone? Then </div>
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There would be no books, which is not to be borne. Willa Cather alone is worth </div>
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The price of admission to the horrors of civilization. Let’s make a list. </div>
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The greatest paintings. Preferred orchestral conductors. Nostalgia singers. </div>
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The best, the very best, roses. After learning all their names—Rose </div>
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de Rescht, Cornelia, Pax—it is important to forget them. All these </div>
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Lists are so much dirty laundry. Sort it out fast and send to laundry </div>
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Or hurl into washing machine, add soap and let’er spin. The truth is </div>
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That all these household tasks and daily work—up the street two men </div>
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Install an air conditioner—are beautiful. Flowers and machines that people </div>
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Love: the boy who opts for trade school while white collar kids </div>
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Call him a ‘greaser.’ I wish I could take an engine apart and reassemble it. </div>
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I also wish I sincerely wanted to. I don’t. “Love is everything that it’s </div>
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Cracked up to be.” There’s a song for you. Another is in the silence </div>
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Of a windless day. Hear it? Motors, yes, and the scrabbling of the surf </div>
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But, too, the silence in which out of the muck arise violet leaves </div>
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(Leaves of violets, that is). The days slide by and we feel we must </div>
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Stamp an impression on them. It is quite other. They stamp us, both </div>
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Time and season so that looking back there are wide unpeopled avenues </div>
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Blue-gray with cars on them, parked either side, and a small bridge that </div>
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Crosses Rock Creek has four bison at its corners, out of scale </div>
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Yet so mysterious to childhood, friendly, ominous, pattable because </div>
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Of bronze. The rain comes back, this spring, like a thirsty dog </div>
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Who goes back and back to his dish. “Fill it up, please,” wag wag. </div>
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Gray depression and purple shadows, the daffodils feigning sunlight </div>
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That came yesterday. One day rain, one day sun, the weather is stuck </div>
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Like a record. Through it all the forsythia begins to bloom, brown </div>
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And yellow and warm as lit gas jets, clinging like bees to </div>
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The arching canes where starlings take cover from foraging cats. Not </div>
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To know: what have these years of living and being lived taught us? </div>
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Not to quarrel? Scarcely. You want to shoot pool, I want to go home: </div>
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And just before the snap of temper one had sensed so </div>
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Strongly the pleasure of watching a game well played: the cue ball </div>
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Carom and the struck ball pocketed. Skill. And still the untutored </div>
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Rain comes down. Open the laundry door. Press your face into the </div>
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Wet April chill: a life mask. Attune yourself to what is happening </div>
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Now, the little wet things, like washing up the lunch dishes. Bubbles </div>
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Rise, rinse and it is done. Let the dishes air dry, the way </div>
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You let your hair after a shampoo. All evaporates, water, time, the </div>
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Happy moment and—harder to believe—the unhappy. Time on a bus, </div>
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That passes, and the night with its burthen and gift of dreams. That </div>
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Other life we live and need, filled with joys and terrors, threaded </div>
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By dailiness: where the wished for sometimes happens, or, just </div>
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Before waking tremulous hands undo buttons. Another day, the sun </div>
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Comes out from behind unbuttoned cloud underclothes—gray with use— </div>
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And bud scales litter the sidewalks. A new shop is being built, </div>
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An old one refurbished. What was a white interior will now be brown </div>
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Behind men’s clothes, there are these changes in taste. Fashion </div>
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It anew. Change in everything yet none so great as the changes in </div>
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Oneself, which, short of sickness, go unobserved. Why watch </div>
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Yourself? You know you’re here, and where tomorrow you will probably </div>
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Be. In the delicatessen a woman made a fumbling gesture then </div>
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Slowly folded toward the floor. “Get a doctor,” someone said. “She’s </div>
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Having a fit.” Not knowing how to help I left, taking with me </div>
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The look of appeal in faded blue eyes. Between these sharp attacks </div>
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Of harsh reality I would like to interpose: interpose is not the </div>
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Word. One wants them not to happen, that’s all, but, like slammed </div>
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On brakes—the cab skids, you are thrown forward, ouch—they </div>
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Come. Times when religion would help: “Be merciful” “Intercede” </div>
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“That which I should have done ...” Fear and superstition and some- </div>
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Thing more. But without the conviction of a truth, best leave </div>
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It alone. Life, it seems, explains nothing about itself. In the </div>
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Garden now daffodils stand full unfolded and to see them is enough. </div>
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They seem no more passing than when they weren’t there: perhaps </div>
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The promise when first the blades pierced the wintry soil </div>
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Was better? You see, you invent choices where none exist. Perhaps </div>
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It is not a choice but a preference? No, take it all, it’s free, </div>
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Help yourself. The sap rises. The trees leaf out and bloom. You </div>
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Suddenly sense: you don’t know what. An exhilaration that revives </div>
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Old views and surges of energy or the pure pleasure of </div>
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Simply looking. A car goes over a rise and there are birches snow </div>
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Twisted into cabalistic shapes: The Devil’s Notch; or Smuggler’s </div>
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Gap. At the time you could not have imagined the time when you </div>
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Would forget the name, as apparent and there as your own. Rivers </div>
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Reflecting silver skies, how many boys have swum in you? A rope </div>
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Tied to a tree caught between my thighs and I was yanked headfirst </div>
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And fell into the muddy creek. What a long time it seemed, rising </div>
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To the surface, how lucky it didn’t catch me in the groin. That </div>
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Won’t happen twice, I imagine. That summer sun was the same </div>
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As this April one: is repetition boring? Or only inactivity? Quite </div>
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A few things are boring, like the broad avenues of Washington </div>
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D.C. that seem to go from nowhere and back again. Civil servants </div>
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Wait at the crossing to cross to lunch at the Waffle House. In </div>
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This twilight Degas a woman sits and holds a fan, it’s </div>
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The just rightness that counts. And how have you come to know just </div>
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Rightness when you see it and what is the deep stirring that it </div>
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Brings? Art is as mysterious as nature, as life, of which it is </div>
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A flower. Under the hedges now the weedy strips grow bright </div>
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With dandelions, just as good a flower as any other. Unfortunately, </div>
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You can’t pick them: they wilt. But these burgeoning days are </div>
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Not like any others. Promise is a part of it, promise of warmth </div>
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And vegetative growth. “Wheel me out into the sun, Sonny, </div>
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These old bones that creak need it.” And the gardener does not </div>
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Come back: over the winter he had a heart attack, has to take it </div>
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Easy. You see death shadowed out in another’s life. The threat </div>
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Is always there, even in balmy April sunshine. So what </div>
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If it is hard to believe in? Stopping in the city while the light </div>
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Is red, to think that all who stop with you too must stop, and </div>
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Yet it is not less individual a fate for all that. “When I </div>
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was born, death kissed me. I kissed it back.” Meantime, there </div>
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Is bridge, and solitaire, and phone calls and a door slams, someone </div>
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Goes out into the April sun to take a spin as far as the </div>
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Grocer’s, to shop, and then come back. In the fullness of time, </div>
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Let me hand you an empty cup, coffee stained. Or a small glass </div>
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Of spirits: “Here’s your ounce of whisky for today.” Next door </div>
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The boys dribble a basketball and practice shots. Two boys </div>
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Run by: high spirits. The postman comes. No mail of interest. </div>
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Another day, there is. A postcard of the Washington Monument, </div>
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A friend waving from a small window at the needle top. “Hoo </div>
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Hoo” he calls. Another day, and still the sun shines down, warming </div>
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Tulips into bloom, a redder red than blood. The dandelions </div>
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Cringe before them. In the evening there will be time enough </div>
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To drive from here to there, study the vegetable patch, admire </div>
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The rosy violets. Life in action, life in repose, life in </div>
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Contemplation, which is hard to tell from day dreaming, on a day </div>
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When the sky woolgathers clouds and sets their semblance on a </div>
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Glassy ocean. Only its edge goes lisp. On no two days the same. </div>
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Is it the ocean’s mindlessness that troubles? At times it seems </div>
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Calculatedly malevolent, tearing the dunes asunder, tumbling </div>
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Summer houses into itself, a terror to see. They say there are </div>
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Those who have never felt terror. A slight creeping of the scalp, </div>
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Merely. How fine. Finer than sand, that, on a day like this. </div>
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Trickles through my fingers, ensconced in a dune cleft, sun </div>
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Warmed and breeze cooled. This peace is full of sounds and </div>
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Movement. A couple passes, jogging. A dog passes, barking </div>
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And running. My nose runs, a little. Just a drip. Left over </div>
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From winter. How long ago it seems! All spring and summer stretch </div>
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Ahead, a roadway lined by roses and thunder. “It will be here </div>
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Before you know it.” These twigs will then have leafed and </div>
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Shower down a harvest of yellow-brown. So far away, so </div>
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Near at hand. The sand runs through my fingers. The yellow </div>
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Daffodils have white corollas (sepals?). The crocuses are gone, </div>
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I didn’t see them go. They were here, now they’re not. Instead </div>
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The forsythia ensnarls its flames, cool fire, pendent above the smoke </div>
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Of its brown branches. Beaches are near. It rains again: the screen </div>
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And window glass are pebbled by it. It soaks through a rain coat that </div>
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Has had its water repellency dry cleaned out of it. Most modern </div>
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Inventions don’t work so well, or not for long. A breakdown occurs, </div>
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Or something simple, like the dishwasher detergent eating off </div>
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The pattern on china, even the etched florets on wine glasses. </div>
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Strong stuff. From the train, a stand of larch is greener than </div>
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Greenest grass. A funny tree, of many moods, gold in autumn, naked </div>
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In winter: an evergreen (it looks) that isn’t. What kind of a tree </div>
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Is that? I love to see it resurrect itself, the enfolded buttons </div>
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Of needles studding the branches, then opening into little bursts. </div>
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And that Washington flower, the pink magnolia tree, blooms now </div>
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In little yards, its trunk a smoky gray. And soon the hybrid azaleas, </div>
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So much too much, will follow, and the tender lilac. Persia, we </div>
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Have much to thank you for, besides the word lapis lazuli. And someone </div>
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You know well is suffering, sees it all but not the way before </div>
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Him, hating his job and not knowing what to change it for. Have </div>
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You any advice to give? Have you learned nothing in all these </div>
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Years? “Take it as it comes.” Sit still and listen: each so alone. </div>
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Someone driving decides not to take that curve, to pile it up </div>
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In smithereens, the anxious and unsatisfying years: goodbye, life. </div>
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Others keep on living so as not to wound their friends: the suicide </div>
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Fantasy, to awaken rested and fresh, to plunge into a deep and </div>
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Dreamless sleep, to be mindless and at one with all that grows, </div>
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Dies and revives each April, here, crying, “Stir your stumps!” </div>
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In the mental hospital a patient is ready to be discharged. “I’m </div>
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So glad to be going home!” Where the same old problems wait; </div>
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Still, to feel more equal to them, that’s something. “Time heals </div>
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All wounds”: now what’s that supposed to mean? Wounds can </div>
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Kill, like that horse chestnut tree with the rotting place will surely </div>
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Die unless the tree doctor comes. Cut out the rot, fill with tree </div>
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Cement, score and leave to heal. The rain comes down in buckets: </div>
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I’ve never seen that, though you often speak of it. The rain </div>
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Comes down and brings depression, too much and too often. And there </div>
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Is the fog off the cold Atlantic. No one is at his best with </div>
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A sinus headache. It will pass. Stopped passages unblock: why </div>
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Let the lovely spring, its muck and scarlet emperors, get you </div>
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Down. Unhibernate. Let the rain soak your hair, run down your </div>
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Face, hang in drops from facial protuberances. Face into </div>
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It, then towel dry. Then another day brings back the sun and </div>
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Violets in the grass. The pear tree thickens all its boughs and </div>
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Twigs into silver-white, a dimmed brilliance, and already at </div>
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Its base a circle of petals on the unmowed grass. Far away </div>
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In Washington, at the Reflecting Pool, the Japanese cherries </div>
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Bust out into their dog mouth pink. Visitors gasp. The sun </div>
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Drips, coats and smears, all that spring yellow under unending </div>
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Blue. Only the oaks hold back their leaf buds, reticent. </div>
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Reticence is not a bad quality, though it may lead to misunderstandings. </div>
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I misunderstood silence for disapproval, see now it was </div>
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Sympathy. Thank you, May, for these warm stirrings. Life </div>
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Goes on, it seems, though in all sorts of places—nursing </div>
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Homes—it is drawing to a close. Abstractions and generalities: </div>
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Grass and blue depths into which the evening star seems set. </div>
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As windows are set in walls in whited Washington. City, begone </div>
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From my thoughts: childhood was not all that gay. Nor all that gray, </div>
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For the matter of that. May leans in my window, offering hornets. </div>
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To them too I give leave to go about their business, which is not </div>
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Nesting in my books. The fresh mown lawn is a rug underneath </div>
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Which is swept the dirt, the living dirt out of which our nurture </div>
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Comes, to which we go, not knowing if we hasten or we tarry. May </div>
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Opens wide her bluest eyes and speaks in bird tongues and a </div>
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Chain saw. The blighted elms come down. Already maple saplings, </div>
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Where other elms once grew and whelmed, count as young trees. In </div>
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A dishpan the soap powder dissolves under a turned on faucet and </div>
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Makes foam, just like the waves that crash ashore at the foot </div>
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Of the street. A restless surface. Chewing, and spitting sand and </div>
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Small white pebbles, clam shells with a sheen or chalky white. </div>
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A horseshoe crab: primeval. And all this without thought, this </div>
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Churning energy. Energy! The sun sucks up the dew; the day is </div>
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Clear; a bird shits on my window ledge. Rain will wash it off </div>
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Or a storm will chip it loose. Life, I do not understand. The </div>
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Days tick by, each so unique, each so alike: what is that chatter </div>
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In the grass? May is not a flowering month so much as shades </div>
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Of green, yellow-green, blue-green, or emerald or dusted like </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
The lilac leaves. The lilac trusses stand in bud. A cardinal </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Passes like a flying tulip, alights and nails the green day </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Down. One flame in a fire of sea-soaked, copper-fed wood: </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
A red that leaps from green and holds it there. Reluctantly </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
The plane tree, always late, as though from age, opens up and </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Hangs its seed balls out. The apples flower. The pear is past. </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Winter is suddenly so far away, behind, ahead. From the train </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
A stand of coarse grass in fuzzy flower. Is it for miracles </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
We live? I like it when the morning sun lights up my room </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Like a yellow jelly bean, an inner glow. May mutters, “Why <br />
Ask questions?” or, “What are the questions you wish to ask?”<br />
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRgJqeM4YxOkX8lnpkVBJtGytH1OU2bIgfTaUIO-eBJ3WiT21NG1JTxjTM3Q42rrgBtsn7S19Wh8c9DFyUvww67zlK1kqmhpOqNR0h0ZMcy-OKx0SfxIgBeKZJon1rKRdXk1fjH2Y6gf8/s1600/untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRgJqeM4YxOkX8lnpkVBJtGytH1OU2bIgfTaUIO-eBJ3WiT21NG1JTxjTM3Q42rrgBtsn7S19Wh8c9DFyUvww67zlK1kqmhpOqNR0h0ZMcy-OKx0SfxIgBeKZJon1rKRdXk1fjH2Y6gf8/s1600/untitled.png" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Collected-Poems-James-Schuyler/dp/0374524033/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1424376360&sr=1-1&keywords=james+schuyler" target="_blank">Purchase the Poetry</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
</div>
</div>
Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-56518669161360278522015-02-11T16:24:00.001-05:002015-02-19T13:41:10.200-05:00On That Darkened Journey <div style="text-align: left;" dir="ltr" trbidi="on">
<h1 class="page__title title" id="page-title" style="text-align: center;">
Window</h1>
<div class="view view-poems view-id-poems view-display-id-poem_author_dob_dod view-dom-id-81f00528173a035c15b041fd81331fb4">
<div class="view-content">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="field-content"><table align="center" class="tr-caption-container" style="text-align: center; margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto;" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img class="full-size" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto;" alt="On my way" src="http://data3.whicdn.com/images/143055748/large.jpg"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/143055748/search?context_type=search&context_user=aimfour1&page=15&query=train%2C+night" target="_blank">*</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br>
<div class="subheading">
<span class="field-content"><span class="node-title"> </span></span><span class="node-title">Carl Sandburg</span>
</div>
<span class="field-content"></span></div>
<span class="field-content"></span><br>
<div class="subheading">
<span class="field-content"><span class="node-title"> </span><span class="date-display-single" content="1967-07-22T00:00:00-04:00"></span> </span></div>
<span class="field-content">
</span> </div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden">
<div class="field-items">
<div class="field-item even">
<pre>Night from a railroad car window
Is a great, dark, soft thing
Broken across with slashes of light. </pre>
<pre> </pre>
<pre> </pre>
<table align="center" class="tr-caption-container" style="text-align: center; margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto;" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img width="200" height="200" class="s-access-image cfMarker" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto;" alt="Product Details" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41QsB6Ede2L._AA160_.jpg"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_9?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=carl+sandburg&sprefix=carl+sand%2Caps%2C204" target="_blank">Buy the poetry.</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<pre> </pre>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-50250741267535097882015-02-09T16:46:00.002-05:002015-02-09T16:46:27.795-05:00On Where They Are Now<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Old Friend </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="beautiful | Tumblr" class="full-size" height="400" src="http://data2.whicdn.com/images/160567342/large.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="330" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/160567342/via/jackalopearrow" target="_blank">*</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br /> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Angus & Julia Stone </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
You seen the days when the roads were death<br />
And the fires burned right to the brim<br />
And the bike you rode to school now it rests<br />
And your story begins<br />
<br />
You read your fair share of books<br />
You tied your lace a thousand times<br />
And you saw the good in the worst of the crooks<br />
And your story begins, and your story begins<br />
<br />
The sun it burns so I jump right in<br />
I felt the cold sea kiss my skin<br />
I turned around and you were gone<br />
And I'm thinkin' of you, thinkin' of you<br />
<br />
Old friend, where you headed for now?<br />
Old friend, where you headed for now?<br />
<br />
Window frames of old pictures of you<br />
And the tree outside appears on end<br />
And you seen the good in the seam of the crop<br />
And your story begins and your story begins<br />
<br />
The sun it burns so I jump right in<br />
I felt the cold sea kiss my skin<br />
I turned around and you were gone<br />
And I'm thinkin' of you, can't stop thinkin' of you<br />
<br />
Old friend, where you headed for now?<br />
Old friend, where you headed for now?<br />
Old friend, where you headed for now?<br />
Old friend, where you headed for now?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Down The Way" class="a-dynamic-image a-stretch-horizontal" data-a-dynamic-image="{"http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/418vixtJVhL._SY355_.jpg":[355,355],"http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/418vixtJVhL._SY450_.jpg":[450,450],"http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/418vixtJVhL._SX466_.jpg":[466,466],"http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/418vixtJVhL.jpg":[500,500],"http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/418vixtJVhL._SX425_.jpg":[425,425]}" data-old-hires="" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/418vixtJVhL.jpg" height="200" id="landingImage" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-height: 500px; max-width: 448px;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Down-The-Angus-Julia-Stone/dp/B0036WHM1E" target="_blank">Buy it here.</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-83044252292472490512015-02-09T12:14:00.001-05:002015-02-09T12:14:14.262-05:00On Calling Forth Your Inner Artemis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="page__title title" id="page-title" style="text-align: left;">
Oh, how this speaks to me. . . I will be buying this collection immediately.</div>
<h3 class="page__title title" id="page-title" style="text-align: center;">
Self-portrait as Thousandfurs</h3>
<div class="view view-poems view-id-poems view-display-id-poem_author_dob_dod view-dom-id-737e28b6c79539d54ff896f08b1c3599">
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<span class="field-content"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Tumblr_laxfv9dx3s1qd0p8zo1_400_large" class="full-size" height="400" src="http://data.whicdn.com/images/4616782/tumblr_laxfv9DX3S1qd0p8zo1_400_large.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="340" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">weheartit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="subheading">
<span class="node-title"> </span></div>
</span></div>
<span class="field-content"><div class="subheading">
<span class="node-title"> </span></div>
<div class="subheading">
<span class="node-title"> </span></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="field-content"><div class="subheading">
<span class="node-title">Stacy Gnall</span> </div>
</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden">
<div class="field-items">
<div class="field-item even">
<br /><pre> To have been age enough.
To have been leg enough.
Been enough bold. Said no.
Been a girl grown into that
negative construction. Or said yes
on condition of a dress. To be yours
if my skirts skimmed the floors.
To have demanded each seam
celestial, appealed for planetary pleats.
And when you saw the sun a sequin,
the moon a button shaped from glass,
and in the stars a pattern
for a dress, when the commission
proved too minute, and the frocks
hung before me like hosts,
to have stood then at the edge
of the wood, heard a hound’s bark
and my heart hark in return.
To have seen asylum in the scruffs
of neck—mink, lynx, ocelot, fox,
Kodiak, ermine, wolf—felt a claw
curve over my sorrow then. Said yes
on condition of a dress. To be yours
if my skirts skimmed the floors.
To have demanded each seam
just short of breathing, my mouth
a-beg for bestial pleats.
And when you saw tails as tassels,
underskins sateen, and in entrails
damasks of flowers and fruit,
when the bet proved not too broad
for you, and before me, the cloak held
open as a boast, to have slipped
into that primitive skin. To have
turned my <i>how how</i> into a howl. To have
picked up my heavy hem and run.</pre>
<pre> </pre>
<pre> </pre>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51rp15qw77L.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" class="image-stretch-vertical" height="200" id="igImage" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51rp15qw77L.jpg" style="max-height: 500px; max-width: 323px;" width="129" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Heart-First-Forest-Stacy-Gnall/dp/1882295870" target="_blank"><tt><u>Buy it here.</u></tt></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<pre> <a name='more'></a></pre>
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<pre> </pre>
</div>
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Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-36316661865953698262014-07-16T22:13:00.003-04:002014-07-16T22:27:51.432-04:00The Soul of An Artist<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/87/1c/74/871c7417110a1a177a1d317a98097f38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="* " border="0" class="pinImg fullBleed loaded fade" src="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/87/1c/74/871c7417110a1a177a1d317a98097f38.jpg" height="640" style="height: 314px; width: 236px;" width="481" /></a></div>
<br />
"With my paint box at home, I can make every color imaginable.
Pink. As pale as a baby’s skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like
spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water.’[She] stares into Peeta’s eyes, hanging on to his words. ‘One
time, I spent three days mixing paint until I found the right shade for
sunlight on white fur. You see, I kept thinking it was yellow, but it
was much more than that. Layers of all sorts of color. One by one. I haven’t
figured out a rainbow yet. They come so quickly and leave so soon. I
never have enough time to capture them. Just a bit of green here or purple
there. And then they fade away again. Back into the air,’ he says Peeta.<br />
<br />
She seems mesmerized by Peeta’s words. Entranced. She lifts up a
trembling hand and paints what I think might be a flower on Peeta’s
cheek.<br />
<br />
‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘That looks beautiful.’<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotwJNG84XvrL1aetQBrsZImmZXXkm7ID7f4qImh5yGkwguYhVys6N7KQeOahx_Aw3JlkJMQUYaHPlHr3HGqCyJMwqXHtdg7e9Vg0GocyxgJCoWigtwBdCj8_XinlVx6hLo1BusUPqStk/s200/CF_UK2.jpg" height="200" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="130" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://amazon.com/" target="_blank">*</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-21287293066688154992014-07-16T21:59:00.000-04:002014-07-16T21:59:01.581-04:00On All Their Dualism:<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div id="poem-content">
<h1 class="page__title title" id="page-title" style="text-align: center;">
The White Room</h1>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<h1 class="page__title title" id="page-title" style="text-align: center;">
<a class="pinImageWrapper" data-element-type="35" href="http://www.salomeberlin.de/" style="background: #665b49;" target="_blank"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="**" class="pinImg fullBleed loaded" src="http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/236x/02/75/8a/02758a85c67bac42f3f04e68d3d4dd73.jpg" style="height: 314px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 236px;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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</a>
</h1>
<h1 class="page__title title" id="page-title" style="text-align: center;">
</h1>
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<span class="field-content"><div class="subheading">
<span class="node-title">Charles Simic</span>, <span class="date-display-single" content="1938-05-09T00:00:00-04:00">1938</span> </div>
</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden">
<div class="field-items">
<div class="field-item even">
<pre>The obvious is difficult
To prove. Many prefer
The hidden. I did, too.
I listened to the trees.
They had a secret
Which they were about to
Make known to me—
And then didn’t.
Summer came. Each tree
On my street had its own
Scheherazade. My nights
Were a part of their wild
Storytelling. We were
Entering dark houses,
Always more dark houses,
Hushed and abandoned.
There was someone with eyes closed
On the upper floors.
The fear of it, and the wonder,
Kept me sleepless.
The truth is bald and cold,
Said the woman
Who always wore white.
She didn’t leave her room.
The sun pointed to one or two
Things that had survived
The long night intact.
The simplest things,
Difficult in their obviousness.
They made no noise.
It was the kind of day
People described as “perfect.”
Gods disguising themselves
As black hairpins, a hand-mirror,
A comb with a tooth missing?
No! That wasn’t it.
Just things as they are,
Unblinking, lying mute
In that bright light—
And the trees waiting for the night.</pre>
<pre> </pre>
<pre> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVIELt1b6KeNrujZoVVex6Dpv7MEB5eysNbwHPn3mnuIjRE2Ykxdsg0yEHvkTiZHEDIXcVLqWCRdkfjoFHhrS7-d1CaUOEryM9xoxBzyPfW8QVnhWB-xE4Jkwf1zjuj-1ecsRS7okQu4/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVIELt1b6KeNrujZoVVex6Dpv7MEB5eysNbwHPn3mnuIjRE2Ykxdsg0yEHvkTiZHEDIXcVLqWCRdkfjoFHhrS7-d1CaUOEryM9xoxBzyPfW8QVnhWB-xE4Jkwf1zjuj-1ecsRS7okQu4/s1600/index.jpg" height="200" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Voice-A-M-Selected-Poems/dp/015603073X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1405560665&sr=8-3&keywords=Charles+Simic&dpPl=1" target="_blank">Purchase the Poetry</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</pre>
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Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-78325093905569301532014-07-16T08:55:00.001-04:002014-07-16T09:21:14.474-04:00Boys and Books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: sans-serif;">Big ones, little ones -- Old, young, real or fictional, hometown and famous. . . It's unmistakably adorable when they do this:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqUNsfBAeKoviUAGvruKS2mQk0kBUUjgfUG08fE7C1RUBpkUgpkk_MF1pYsOKNqDuZz0DjrRY_7999ms0XpEXCfgdbQtX3U0O-cSOKdu_bEgiechq6WBa2y65g_ZJxP1eDm2-SwY3xIE/s1600/IiDe5JEUTq.png" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqUNsfBAeKoviUAGvruKS2mQk0kBUUjgfUG08fE7C1RUBpkUgpkk_MF1pYsOKNqDuZz0DjrRY_7999ms0XpEXCfgdbQtX3U0O-cSOKdu_bEgiechq6WBa2y65g_ZJxP1eDm2-SwY3xIE/s640/IiDe5JEUTq.png"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOVAbj_3aPgKnacuRdqIKC7qxHqNO30Kiy1ijZfjaIznidRm5zvnf19czHBO4Y2n6GkoQN5pJcIdwCzUxr4X-hAHH3ycxqi4FBB0Cd5GG6Ay2NjdoWCN5FJslh70nP3Qg_3s9s7VpxXzc/s1600/Ym1BeeXlmc.png" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOVAbj_3aPgKnacuRdqIKC7qxHqNO30Kiy1ijZfjaIznidRm5zvnf19czHBO4Y2n6GkoQN5pJcIdwCzUxr4X-hAHH3ycxqi4FBB0Cd5GG6Ay2NjdoWCN5FJslh70nP3Qg_3s9s7VpxXzc/s640/Ym1BeeXlmc.png"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFgyxDHZZ3UPimWu-O2Hj2ovN2UEw80wYmi737n4rRFjAyaOmIu7EyDe67RQfARz-DCaGzBpxS3Mlu4JQeHlzauFbQJOgsp95mrCBxzx30eNH4RKi5e6LDSWSMO8g-Wz9yTr1vzDBfc5M/s1600/3dH3Kbxnqk.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFgyxDHZZ3UPimWu-O2Hj2ovN2UEw80wYmi737n4rRFjAyaOmIu7EyDe67RQfARz-DCaGzBpxS3Mlu4JQeHlzauFbQJOgsp95mrCBxzx30eNH4RKi5e6LDSWSMO8g-Wz9yTr1vzDBfc5M/s640/3dH3Kbxnqk.png"></a><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_v1MKCAqynWIbKChYLhiZazIU9r0O35xHKkMj2y5uJaoMxBLykRDXfuO4f8G4CYYEmd4MpIpsLNmy606UHhdeHoluXISaqKryiS692Z743uKltLDJ1ubkoQTLa7Yko4qhSDm4eSZuH4/s1600/UB0dtzDbxK.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_v1MKCAqynWIbKChYLhiZazIU9r0O35xHKkMj2y5uJaoMxBLykRDXfuO4f8G4CYYEmd4MpIpsLNmy606UHhdeHoluXISaqKryiS692Z743uKltLDJ1ubkoQTLa7Yko4qhSDm4eSZuH4/s640/UB0dtzDbxK.png"> </a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm7rQfhLdBRRQgjCNON3_p9zk-fXqksJRgXq2H0NCtBLjawwUH7glWPy-EDE6t5xNQ8235gJAeFFjW3hmfGq7otPr3Djxo6090YD_Y1zc-osV8srd4EcG_yQXnC6R1UJhSRUFFNk9TQf0/s1600/DyR5likEPN.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfWtPCm_Jd3zU9Nvpf37it9B9f7XP4eOQ2W664siA1aNI3IZUMZTJOG8d-nsyz4u3c__ckAkfgN35sv-COJVXAAVlfcubuYibhlPCBj2L6JQ7Kqs88b0y-lKbfAVQzEd2BBDHNw20ex4/s1600/wFUpcBxJTz.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfWtPCm_Jd3zU9Nvpf37it9B9f7XP4eOQ2W664siA1aNI3IZUMZTJOG8d-nsyz4u3c__ckAkfgN35sv-COJVXAAVlfcubuYibhlPCBj2L6JQ7Kqs88b0y-lKbfAVQzEd2BBDHNw20ex4/s640/wFUpcBxJTz.png"> </a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qlg2VtvN_uYRvycBm7DCECkt0jnOIgGD6SMgWVJ1O9v8WgDfoaBNus_ZhqpgxVGt6DbGTfKrquzO6W97mR5oAWTbttMQm_xqmeZnDhNve10IvU8XJ128GQEkgPSGBzdcnPqei7DVfgE/s1600/pCEjCNrFeh.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qlg2VtvN_uYRvycBm7DCECkt0jnOIgGD6SMgWVJ1O9v8WgDfoaBNus_ZhqpgxVGt6DbGTfKrquzO6W97mR5oAWTbttMQm_xqmeZnDhNve10IvU8XJ128GQEkgPSGBzdcnPqei7DVfgE/s640/pCEjCNrFeh.png"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4OCfwD-q3B2WnL4tAOm_hpLon27g0AAdj7mPKEYaVL39BD4B74vXm1RpVyCSsChIq14brWzQI_ZC520apzNdpxu9wSKX9Pg8nPAr4akmsnDFQE9fbYdCTljklpWLH-TOlTV3Z3N_5lNU/s1600/pXyzS0B3ek.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a><span style="font-family: sans-serif;">(All images courtesy of We Heart It).</span></div>Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-65266252913902714062013-11-12T23:11:00.004-05:002013-11-12T23:17:14.725-05:00Lush Cravings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I'm now totally obsessed with Lush cosmetics, all fresh, handmade, and not tested on animals!</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.lushusa.com/on/demandware.store/Sites-Lush-Site/en_US/Home-Show?lushportalref=http%3A%2F%2Fsearch.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%3B_ylt%3DAqD0wO8xj8_MJIPEun4mOiHO2FxH%3Ftoggle%3D1%26cop%3Dmss%26ei%3DUTF-8%26fr%3Dyfp-hrtab-851%26p%3Dlush%2Bcosmetics" target="_blank">lush</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Being a backwoods girl, I don't get exposed to a lot of cool new places like this, but I found store while in Jacksonville, thought I had discovered something, but came home to discover the major buzz already surrounding The Canada based company... Oh, well!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Trying of stay affordable, I picked out a only the few things I thought were suiting - Shampoo and Conditioner for my growing hair (planning on donating) and Sugar Scrub for my craft-worn hands...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf65nA9QWvGe4O2D2Pr1-LICiI1MWfcIcEdw9ysSBwKwy7aDHvX_lcnAc88d6Ebny6gk3KrRoKzd-yhcWwNbMfqSMgiPQd8KPaDvuzj6Q6bx2vOazoLwFvokSn98j_kIHG5y4Eb_RkmO4/s640/blogger-image-58882521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf65nA9QWvGe4O2D2Pr1-LICiI1MWfcIcEdw9ysSBwKwy7aDHvX_lcnAc88d6Ebny6gk3KrRoKzd-yhcWwNbMfqSMgiPQd8KPaDvuzj6Q6bx2vOazoLwFvokSn98j_kIHG5y4Eb_RkmO4/s640/blogger-image-58882521.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">This is the Godiva Shampoo, Sea-Salt Conditioner and Sugar Scrub. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYABpv0x39YchLwHJbjbL7rFHi-YcagfsrmkV10To6zg8xXZZLcKhvwTAmfPO_tkGNjOBoXoa7ahx7yQr0_fNznUqTgJy0hRTQKkuAUfeOumxxIB_ONt7vedouDMdmh5h0oM0HTykQ6U/s640/blogger-image--67100930.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYABpv0x39YchLwHJbjbL7rFHi-YcagfsrmkV10To6zg8xXZZLcKhvwTAmfPO_tkGNjOBoXoa7ahx7yQr0_fNznUqTgJy0hRTQKkuAUfeOumxxIB_ONt7vedouDMdmh5h0oM0HTykQ6U/s640/blogger-image--67100930.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">They are a-maze-ing! They</span><span style="font-size: 16px;">make my hair and skin so soft and yummy smelling, and having a pup that was rescued after spending the first three years of her life in an animal testing facility, their cause means the world to me!</span><span style="font-size: 16px;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmWSDHi5eqcpvbJxsKp6nHS1ojueQjaqOWurJgR68ZOiru3ZTKDarLg5BaLAR4rYlfldgZ2n3JeaOyVVTjc4hgrQ1LvfbtXrBzuqT5SUVHHip-lPXta1O9IfQqA3at4kjoCBwJ3aIUug/s640/blogger-image-1036837388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmWSDHi5eqcpvbJxsKp6nHS1ojueQjaqOWurJgR68ZOiru3ZTKDarLg5BaLAR4rYlfldgZ2n3JeaOyVVTjc4hgrQ1LvfbtXrBzuqT5SUVHHip-lPXta1O9IfQqA3at4kjoCBwJ3aIUug/s640/blogger-image-1036837388.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Gosh I'm in trouble, why oh why are there no stores nearby? They are on Christmas Wishlist for sure!</span></div>
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Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-59752874373402186862013-10-06T11:52:00.001-04:002013-10-06T11:52:55.551-04:00On The Come Gatherin' of Fall<div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> APPLE<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqKSc9b_DemkVUpnRs7tO1JmI6HP8UglRCKaJO9tcyt8wYB28t4F1fAcpucS4RMrcGHkZ0maTVvenWpLeUTYLA_tgpvRXOWHh5_5PJsd2HkchjsSnNMU2ob5oQ5lzk15lHD_BhUYDJBfQ/s640/blogger-image-1320345536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqKSc9b_DemkVUpnRs7tO1JmI6HP8UglRCKaJO9tcyt8wYB28t4F1fAcpucS4RMrcGHkZ0maTVvenWpLeUTYLA_tgpvRXOWHh5_5PJsd2HkchjsSnNMU2ob5oQ5lzk15lHD_BhUYDJBfQ/s640/blogger-image-1320345536.jpg"></a></div></span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Gertrude Stein</span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font>Apple plum, carpet steak, seed clam, colored wine, calm seen, cold cream, best shake, potato, potato and no no gold work with pet, a green seen is called bake and change sweet is bready, a little piece a little piece please.<br><br>A little piece please. Cane again to the presupposed and ready eucalyptus tree, count out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham. This is use. </span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCRh_eMd-MCtvF9OwVM-_lpsPzUHPamS23RPcHb0AUXlNBtiYpODWlnF35TXzw_k2T96WWQdi98L6sjB-t7pgE0WXrHKLkPGlCvNOIlucWmR_ckyd6fMn1TscnVtmjGPWAwMjDiHQUicw/s640/blogger-image-226383397.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCRh_eMd-MCtvF9OwVM-_lpsPzUHPamS23RPcHb0AUXlNBtiYpODWlnF35TXzw_k2T96WWQdi98L6sjB-t7pgE0WXrHKLkPGlCvNOIlucWmR_ckyd6fMn1TscnVtmjGPWAwMjDiHQUicw/s640/blogger-image-226383397.jpg"></a></div></div></span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"> Find it Here:</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">http://www.amazon.com/Tender-Buttons-Gertrude-Stein/dp/146623430X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1381073871&sr=1-1&keywords=Tender+Buttons</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div></div>Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-44730683970319860682013-07-19T16:35:00.001-04:002013-07-19T16:35:23.652-04:00On Strange and Haunting Beauty<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy-VjNj29vSlI9mp4A8DL3SlD5x9-o_CueLEvitrGNKo7b9mczPNjKQ0Q69eJV7i79q7dNkpLkKiElW1Xt5n0jJxtYNa78YiDpemnhoefRzay7SrNjqOiH3U6YUPyzHQSv3iwxwLlIg_g/s640/blogger-image--1513487095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy-VjNj29vSlI9mp4A8DL3SlD5x9-o_CueLEvitrGNKo7b9mczPNjKQ0Q69eJV7i79q7dNkpLkKiElW1Xt5n0jJxtYNa78YiDpemnhoefRzay7SrNjqOiH3U6YUPyzHQSv3iwxwLlIg_g/s640/blogger-image--1513487095.jpg"></a></div>Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-83971929380288151102013-05-31T22:03:00.001-04:002013-05-31T22:03:13.813-04:00One LoveI've been away awhile. I'll explain later. Or not.<div>Anyway, later loves...</div><div>But sooner, really.</div><div>Sooner rather than later. But for right now, I leave you with this...</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPPrTSRXw-v50A_hOkkNnHzN9xmapq_8NZx30tPkEZn06E30Qu-FjcDIj0TGoKo-8pqqjAL6-nlMj5FtclD1jVRQYl1Z20x7YB1McvdxaTduxeYIbK-hgncHIYNrB7nuquHUliA5fqg0/s640/blogger-image-745305677.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPPrTSRXw-v50A_hOkkNnHzN9xmapq_8NZx30tPkEZn06E30Qu-FjcDIj0TGoKo-8pqqjAL6-nlMj5FtclD1jVRQYl1Z20x7YB1McvdxaTduxeYIbK-hgncHIYNrB7nuquHUliA5fqg0/s640/blogger-image-745305677.jpg"></a></div>Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-56588062741209833042013-04-24T21:35:00.000-04:002013-04-24T21:35:12.000-04:00On Outer Peace<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<h1 class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
The Peace of Wild Things</h1>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" id="irc_mi" src="http://nycdauphinexo.files.wordpress.com/2011/12/alone-time.jpg?w=922" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px;" width="263" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://nycdauphine.com/tag/night-time/" target="_blank">*</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="fullname_search">Wendell Berry</span>
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" sizcache="11" sizset="47">
</div>
<div class="poem" sizcache="11" sizset="47">
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
When despair for the world
grows in me </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
and I wake in the night at the
least sound </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
in fear of what my life and my
children’s lives may be, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
I go and lie down where the
wood drake </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
rests in his beauty on the
water, and the great heron feeds. </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
I come into the peace of wild
things </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
who do not tax their lives
with forethought </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
of grief. I come into the
presence of still water. </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And I feel above me the
day-blind stars </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
waiting with their light. For
a time </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
I rest in the grace of the
world, and am free.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img class="rg_i" data-sz="f" name="nwykBAeR6T3UpM:" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT508KINPyQ0gfDQTXuGkVqJ77aEIZomYmRieKJEeiY74Q98xa_lQ" style="height: 197px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: -1px; width: 121px;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Selected-Poems-Wendell-Berry/dp/1582430373/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366852269&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Selected+Poems+of+Wendell+Berry" target="_blank">-from The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry</a></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
</div>
Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-84528937843509513682013-04-23T22:48:00.002-04:002013-04-23T22:48:41.968-04:00On What They Follow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td valign="top" width="80%">
<h1 class="TITLE" style="text-align: center;">
</h1>
</td><div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<td colspan="2" nowrap="" style="text-align: right;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
</td></tr>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<tr><div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<td colspan="3"><h1 class="TITLE" style="text-align: center;">
Children in a Field </h1>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="Tumblr_mfgfwbea2h1qjnc56o1_500_large" class="full-size" height="320" src="http://data.whicdn.com/images/46922353/tumblr_mfgfwbEa2H1qjnc56o1_500_large.jpg" width="240" /> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/46922353/via/Lost_in_ur_eyes" target="_blank">*</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/46922353/via/Lost_in_ur_eyes" target="_blank">"Limbo"</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
by Angela Shaw </div>
</td></tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="3"><br /></td></tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="2" valign="top"><pre>They don't wade in so much as they are taken.
Deep in the day, in the deep of the field,
every current in the grasses whispers <i>hurry
hurry</i>, every yellow spreads its perfume
like a rumor, impelling them further on.
It is the way of girls. It is the sway
of their dresses in the summer trance-
light, their bare calves already far-gone
in green. What songs will they follow?
Whatever the wood warbles, whatever storm
or harm the border promises, whatever
calm. Let them go. Let them go traceless
through the high grass and into the willow-
blur, traceless across the lean blue glint
of the river, to the long dark bodies
of the conifers, and over the welcoming
threshold of nightfall.</pre>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" height="200" id="main-image" rel="" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51Kewrdq37L._SY380_.jpg" style="display: inline; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="132" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Beginning-Fields-Angela-Shaw/dp/1932195734/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366771386&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Beginning+of+the+Fields+by+Angela+Shaw" target="_blank">-from The Beginning of the Fields</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
-</td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</div>
Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2894269733586082420.post-66328540039755152082013-04-15T21:15:00.001-04:002013-04-15T21:27:53.860-04:00A Song For Boston<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I just can't get over this terrible event that took place today in Boston. There can never be a good enough answer for why so many happy, healthy people were attacked in the middle of a celebration, poeple who likely had nothing to do with the hate another human felt in their heart...<br />
<br />
I know so many people feel the way I do tonight too...<br />
<br />
Now when we are all so angry and scared and lost in the wake of this terrible event. It is so important to remember the closest hit up in Boston. It will be a long night for many, many people - victims, survivors, doctors and first respond<span class="text_exposed_show">ers, 2 deeply grieving familes and many more whose future is now so uncertian. To the law enforcement and their own families. God Bless them all tonight, and in the days that come -- God Bless them all.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"></span></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">"Dark Days"</span></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>-The Punch Brothers<br /><img height="320" id="irc_mi" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS4xlZG_H4-ti_EadXOjy0aPK_VaD9m8godabTymePgTvM-U6_9" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="295" /></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><br />(for Boston) </strong><strong></strong></div>
<strong></strong><br />
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px;">
<!-- start of lyrics -->Mother, listen to my heart. <br />
Mother, listen to my heart,<br />
Just as one beat ends, another starts.<br />
You can hear no matter where you are<br />
Sister, hide our love away<br />
From the evil we both know.<br />
<br />
<i>[Chorus]</i><br />
It can see you through these dark days,<br />
Though they seem to darken as I go.<br />
Our love will see us through these dark, dark days sister,<br />
'Til it lights the way back home.<br />
Sister, hide our love away.<br />
<br />
It can turn the whole world upside down,<br />
Shake it 'til the sky falls to the ground.<br />
We don't have to reap the fear they sow,<br />
Friends, as long as we hide our love away,<br />
In the good they'll never know.<br />
<br />
<i>[Chorus]</i><br />
It can see us through these dark days,<br />
Though they seem to darken as we go.<br />
Our love will see us through these dark, dark days sister,<br />
'Til it lights the way back home.<br />
Sister, hide our love away.<br />
<br />
Mother, listen to my heart,<br />
Just as one beats ends, another starts.<br />
You can hear no matter where you are.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px;">
<strong>"Dark Days"</strong><br />
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px;">
<!-- start of lyrics -->Mother, listen to my heart. <br />
Mother, listen to my heart,<br />
Just as one beat ends, another starts.<br />
You can hear no matter where you are<br />
Sister, hide our love away<br />
From the evil we both know.<br />
<br />
<i>[Chorus]</i><br />
It can see you through these dark days,<br />
Though they seem to darken as I go.<br />
Our love will see us through these dark, dark days sister,<br />
'Til it lights the way back home.<br />
Sister, hide our love away.<br />
<br />
It can turn the whole world upside down,<br />
Shake it 'til the sky falls to the ground.<br />
We don't have to reap the fear they sow,<br />
Friends, as long as we hide our love away,<br />
In the good they'll never know.<br />
<br />
<i>[Chorus]</i><br />
It can see us through these dark days,<br />
Though they seem to darken as we go.<br />
Our love will see us through these dark, dark days sister,<br />
'Til it lights the way back home.<br />
Sister, hide our love away.<br />
<br />
Mother, listen to my heart,<br />
Just as one beats ends, another starts.<br />
You can hear no matter where you are.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Days/dp/B007IGNGUU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366073330&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Punch+Brothers%2C+Dark+Days" target="_blank">-Listen on Amazon</a></div>
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; text-align: center;">
<img height="120" src="http://www.punchbrothers.com/wp-content/themes/prod/images/PB-ahoy-v2.jpg" width="320" /></div>
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/images/B007IGNGUU/ref=dp_image_z_0?ie=UTF8&n=163856011&s=dmusic" target="AmazonHelp"><img alt="Dark Days" border="0" height="200" id="prodImage" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51CD7CvMbFL._SL500_AA280_.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
Poetrycookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06289907578633386855noreply@blogger.com0