Dream Letter
Lady time fly away
I've been thinking 'bout my yesterday
Oh, please listen darlin' to my empty prayers
Sleep inside my dreams tonight
All I need to know tonight are you and my child
Oh, is he a soldier or is he a dreamer?
Is he mama's little man?
Does he help you when he can?
Or does he ask about me?
Just like a soldier boy
I been out fighting wars
That the world never knows about
But I never win them loud
There's no crowds around me
But when I get to thinkin'
'Bout the old days
When love was here to stay
I wonder if we'd ever tried
Oh, what I'd give to hold him.
Tim Buckley
Happy Sad
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
3.3.07
11.2.07
notes: delicate and direct oriental delicassy, your questions are sparks. I feel old and I feel fine.
to W.H. Auden
Scraps of appreciation
on the door of my wardrobe
In my inbox
My outbox.
One winter, after a week of skies like dust,
I nearly traced you on my body,
indissolubly,
across dud-wing shoulder blades.
Last night, even, I found
your shit copied longhand and jammed into
a pile
of ancient birthday cards.
Among postcards from Marrakech,
Stockholm, China,
your poem is breeding -
A printout in Courier,
heavy seam of creasing where it'd been
folded
and pressed tight by hyper-glossy music rags
dating back to oh-one.
You wrote a poem that I married my life to,
My youth, forfeit
in a hasty moment of unthinking passion
to your two-dozen lines
or so.
And of course you've sculpted me,
old man, dead poet.
A child of cutting edges
that trim
and rarefy language,
watching words become antique ornaments,
I smell of you.
sing harmonies of you, behind the anthem choruses
of my rock shows.
You did this,
whose starched collars and bowler hats
would be at odds with the new streets,
squid-inked as they are
and encrusted
with the lymph jewels
of a city's decadence.
But it was your expired wonder
that rattled me
helped wind me,
and steadied my bones, soft,
upon this garish tarmac.
Old poet, dead man.
Light Less Public
Sara Saab
to W.H. Auden
Scraps of appreciation
on the door of my wardrobe
In my inbox
My outbox.
One winter, after a week of skies like dust,
I nearly traced you on my body,
indissolubly,
across dud-wing shoulder blades.
Last night, even, I found
your shit copied longhand and jammed into
a pile
of ancient birthday cards.
Among postcards from Marrakech,
Stockholm, China,
your poem is breeding -
A printout in Courier,
heavy seam of creasing where it'd been
folded
and pressed tight by hyper-glossy music rags
dating back to oh-one.
You wrote a poem that I married my life to,
My youth, forfeit
in a hasty moment of unthinking passion
to your two-dozen lines
or so.
And of course you've sculpted me,
old man, dead poet.
A child of cutting edges
that trim
and rarefy language,
watching words become antique ornaments,
I smell of you.
sing harmonies of you, behind the anthem choruses
of my rock shows.
You did this,
whose starched collars and bowler hats
would be at odds with the new streets,
squid-inked as they are
and encrusted
with the lymph jewels
of a city's decadence.
But it was your expired wonder
that rattled me
helped wind me,
and steadied my bones, soft,
upon this garish tarmac.
Old poet, dead man.
Light Less Public
Sara Saab
9.2.07
notes: after a talk, in discovering poetry in what she was saying, I reminded a poem sitting in my vault, left there to pay a visit one day...
poets don’t have gender
just faint words embossed on their flesh
like secondary sexual characteristics,
a many-years-old growth of impressions
which is never fully expressed,
shave it off or leave it for its charm?
bearded Hemingway hunts down his death –
a lazy lioness in a broken trajectory of flight
pounces on him swiftly and heavily
like tropical rain after a long drought,
how long did he have to wait for her
hidden, craving,
feeding the mosquitoes of routine with his own blood?!
after all, who has to wait for whom
in this unwritten code of existence
who is hunting whom?
poets don’t have gender
solitude’s hermaphrodites
incomprehensibly wanting every time the other the Other,
in torture giving birth to only themselves
which are repeated,
а repetition of а repetition
repeat please
а repetition of а repetition,
how does one escape these hula-hoops of bodies?
reconciling these differences within oneself
smoothing genitalia,
everything will go smoothly, Hemingway
without any snags,
the last boundaries of self-identification are crossed,
Gordian knots of mutual obligations are hewn,
Sisyphus’ stone of life is pushed from the summit,
genius doesn’t have gender
just a throat raw from shouting
between the legs
poets don't have gender
Halyna Krouk
poets don’t have gender
just faint words embossed on their flesh
like secondary sexual characteristics,
a many-years-old growth of impressions
which is never fully expressed,
shave it off or leave it for its charm?
bearded Hemingway hunts down his death –
a lazy lioness in a broken trajectory of flight
pounces on him swiftly and heavily
like tropical rain after a long drought,
how long did he have to wait for her
hidden, craving,
feeding the mosquitoes of routine with his own blood?!
after all, who has to wait for whom
in this unwritten code of existence
who is hunting whom?
poets don’t have gender
solitude’s hermaphrodites
incomprehensibly wanting every time the other the Other,
in torture giving birth to only themselves
which are repeated,
а repetition of а repetition
repeat please
а repetition of а repetition,
how does one escape these hula-hoops of bodies?
reconciling these differences within oneself
smoothing genitalia,
everything will go smoothly, Hemingway
without any snags,
the last boundaries of self-identification are crossed,
Gordian knots of mutual obligations are hewn,
Sisyphus’ stone of life is pushed from the summit,
genius doesn’t have gender
just a throat raw from shouting
between the legs
poets don't have gender
Halyna Krouk
8.2.07
notes: the words drying, slow direction to
Angkor Wat, silence growing.
When I go to sleep at night my mind
hides parts of my body
in different rooms of the house
so I wake up in the morning
wondering where I am
and how to go about finding myself
Sometimes I decide to do without
an arm or a spine and once
I just left my head
hidden in a box of old letters
on the top shelf
of the bedroom closet
because I never look there
A.Boy
both image and poem
Angkor Wat, silence growing.
When I go to sleep at night my mind
hides parts of my body
in different rooms of the house
so I wake up in the morning
wondering where I am
and how to go about finding myself
Sometimes I decide to do without
an arm or a spine and once
I just left my head
hidden in a box of old letters
on the top shelf
of the bedroom closet
because I never look there
A.Boy
both image and poem
7.2.07
2.2.07
notes: "on going project"
north and not so cold
warm and deep talks
sometimes so deep in the history of our lives
...and i love, really, i love you
a book i'm reading:
Blink(The Power of Thinking without Thinking)
Malcolm Gladwell,
bought in a snap in my airport loved bookshop.
(all 3 books I'm reading now were bought there!)
The killer lives inside me; yes, I can feel him move.
Sometimes he's lightly sleeping in the quiet of his room;
but then his eyes will rise and stare through mine,
he'll speak my words and slice my mind inside.
Yes, the killer lives.
The angels live inside me, I can feel them smile;
their presence strokes and soothes the tempest in my mind
and their love can heal the wounds that I have wrought.
They watch me as I go to fall;
well, I know I shall be caught
while the angels live.
How can I be free?
How can I get help?
Am I really me?
Am I someone else?
But stalking in my cloisters hang the acolytes of gloom
and Death's Head throws his cloak into the corner of my room
and I am doomed.
But laughing in my courtyard play the pranksters of my youth
and solemn, waiting Old Man in the gables of the roof:
he tells me truth.
And I, too, live inside me and very often don't know who I am;
I know I'm not a hero;well, I hope that I'm not damned.
I'm just a man, and killers, angels, all are these,
dictators, saviours, refugees in war and peace
as long as Man lives...
I'm just a man, and killers, angels, all are these:
dictators, saviours, refugees.
Man Erg
Peter Hammill
north and not so cold
warm and deep talks
sometimes so deep in the history of our lives
...and i love, really, i love you
a book i'm reading:
Blink(The Power of Thinking without Thinking)
Malcolm Gladwell,
bought in a snap in my airport loved bookshop.
(all 3 books I'm reading now were bought there!)
The killer lives inside me; yes, I can feel him move.
Sometimes he's lightly sleeping in the quiet of his room;
but then his eyes will rise and stare through mine,
he'll speak my words and slice my mind inside.
Yes, the killer lives.
The angels live inside me, I can feel them smile;
their presence strokes and soothes the tempest in my mind
and their love can heal the wounds that I have wrought.
They watch me as I go to fall;
well, I know I shall be caught
while the angels live.
How can I be free?
How can I get help?
Am I really me?
Am I someone else?
But stalking in my cloisters hang the acolytes of gloom
and Death's Head throws his cloak into the corner of my room
and I am doomed.
But laughing in my courtyard play the pranksters of my youth
and solemn, waiting Old Man in the gables of the roof:
he tells me truth.
And I, too, live inside me and very often don't know who I am;
I know I'm not a hero;well, I hope that I'm not damned.
I'm just a man, and killers, angels, all are these,
dictators, saviours, refugees in war and peace
as long as Man lives...
I'm just a man, and killers, angels, all are these:
dictators, saviours, refugees.
Man Erg
Peter Hammill
25.1.07
notes: "on going project"
last night i have discussed
life, coincidencies, affection and love
why my love for you
you free bird
we exchanged thanks and skates,
by the end of the night
i had only one page translated
a smile on my face
and the certainty of loving
Where
Perhaps a woman is waiting for you.
In a turquoise mood. In a yellow car.
In the parking lot of a ghost town.
Where a flock of scarves is turning.
Where it’s sixty degrees inside the idea
and seven o’clock on the last day.
Where the children have misplaced your bones.
Where a glass anvil is falling
through atmospheres of language.
poem: Where
Chad Sweeney
last night i have discussed
life, coincidencies, affection and love
why my love for you
you free bird
we exchanged thanks and skates,
by the end of the night
i had only one page translated
a smile on my face
and the certainty of loving
Where
Perhaps a woman is waiting for you.
In a turquoise mood. In a yellow car.
In the parking lot of a ghost town.
Where a flock of scarves is turning.
Where it’s sixty degrees inside the idea
and seven o’clock on the last day.
Where the children have misplaced your bones.
Where a glass anvil is falling
through atmospheres of language.
poem: Where
Chad Sweeney
23.1.07
I am now a teacher without teams or students
I am now a teacher for myself and the others
who want to hear me
who want to read me
who want to talk with me
and that is wonderful,
i can celebrate life every day!
SONG TO A NEW MORNING
There are teachers who say that the world is a gas.
There are others who think it's a pain in the ass;
There are some who insist that we never will know,
and those who reply that we'll know if we grow.
There are teachers who preach that we all must be celibate,
but others say sex is divine as THEY tell of it;
some say have orgasms, others say "no,
turn the energy inward and feel how you glow."
There's karma and dharma and chanting and prayer
and yoga and acid and "Christ-ian care.
There are teachers who preach that we'll reap what we sow
while others insist that we let go and flow.
There are some who hold out for us pie-in-the-sky
with spirits to guide us around when we die.
Some say we're doomed to eternal damnation
unless we wear hair shirts "and love flagellation.
The physicists give us a relative space
with particles bouncing all over the place.
They tell us we never can know what is true
because seeing it changes the whole point of view.
There's tantra and mantra and teachings like honey.
Some give it away and some charge lots of money.
Elizabeth Gips
I am now a teacher for myself and the others
who want to hear me
who want to read me
who want to talk with me
and that is wonderful,
i can celebrate life every day!
SONG TO A NEW MORNINGThere are teachers who say that the world is a gas.
There are others who think it's a pain in the ass;
There are some who insist that we never will know,
and those who reply that we'll know if we grow.
There are teachers who preach that we all must be celibate,
but others say sex is divine as THEY tell of it;
some say have orgasms, others say "no,
turn the energy inward and feel how you glow."
There's karma and dharma and chanting and prayer
and yoga and acid and "Christ-ian care.
There are teachers who preach that we'll reap what we sow
while others insist that we let go and flow.
There are some who hold out for us pie-in-the-sky
with spirits to guide us around when we die.
Some say we're doomed to eternal damnation
unless we wear hair shirts "and love flagellation.
The physicists give us a relative space
with particles bouncing all over the place.
They tell us we never can know what is true
because seeing it changes the whole point of view.
There's tantra and mantra and teachings like honey.
Some give it away and some charge lots of money.
Elizabeth Gips
What a fantastic poet
Antonio Machado (1875-1939)!
one of the greatest spanish poets of all time, here in a french translation
Jamais je n'ai cherché la gloire
Ni voulu dans la mémoire
des hommes
Laisser mes chansons
Mais j'aime les mondes subtiles
Aériens et délicats
Comme des bulles de savon.
J'aime les voir s'envoler,
Se colorer de soleil et de pourpre,
Voler sous le ciel bleu, subitement trembler,
Puis éclater.
A demander ce que tu sais
Tu ne dois pas perdre ton temps
Et à des questions sans réponse
Qui donc pourrait te répondre?
Chantez en coeur avec moi:
Savoir? Nous ne savons rien
Venus d'une mer de mystère
Vers une mer inconnue nous allons
Et entre les deux mystères
Règne la grave énigme
Une clef inconnue ferme les trois coffres
Le savant n'enseigne rien, lumière n'éclaire pas
Que disent les mots?
Et que dit l'eau du rocher?
Voyageur, le chemin
C'est les traces de tes pas
C'est tout; voyageur,
il n'y a pas de chemin,
Le chemin se fait en marchant
Le chemin se fait en marchant
Et quand tu regardes en arrière
Tu vois le sentier que jamais
Tu ne dois à nouveau fouler
Voyageur! Il n'y a pas de chemins
Rien que des sillages sur la mer.
Tout passe et tout demeure
Mais notre affaire est de passer
De passer en traçant
Des chemins
Des chemins sur la mer
Antonio Machado (1875-1939)!
one of the greatest spanish poets of all time, here in a french translation
Jamais je n'ai cherché la gloire
Ni voulu dans la mémoire
des hommes
Laisser mes chansons
Mais j'aime les mondes subtiles
Aériens et délicats
Comme des bulles de savon.
J'aime les voir s'envoler,
Se colorer de soleil et de pourpre,
Voler sous le ciel bleu, subitement trembler,
Puis éclater.
A demander ce que tu sais
Tu ne dois pas perdre ton temps
Et à des questions sans réponse
Qui donc pourrait te répondre?
Chantez en coeur avec moi:
Savoir? Nous ne savons rien
Venus d'une mer de mystère
Vers une mer inconnue nous allons
Et entre les deux mystères
Règne la grave énigme
Une clef inconnue ferme les trois coffres
Le savant n'enseigne rien, lumière n'éclaire pas
Que disent les mots?
Et que dit l'eau du rocher?
Voyageur, le chemin
C'est les traces de tes pas
C'est tout; voyageur,
il n'y a pas de chemin,
Le chemin se fait en marchant
Le chemin se fait en marchant
Et quand tu regardes en arrière
Tu vois le sentier que jamais
Tu ne dois à nouveau fouler
Voyageur! Il n'y a pas de chemins
Rien que des sillages sur la mer.
Tout passe et tout demeure
Mais notre affaire est de passer
De passer en traçant
Des chemins
Des chemins sur la mer
10.1.07
1.1.07
Notes under stormy weather far away from my base
but with music and tea and space
The quote of the day
"The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up."
Paul Valery
I'm working in a new plan to make 2007 a very good and different year.
I will be visiting my country and the other - my secret country - in a few days.
It is a trip, the one to my country, to revisit some feelings, to adjust my inner clock and to smile, the smile of her - one of the best smiles I ever saw in my life.
I will then go to my secret destination, some compealing visit to the sacred country. Don't ask me why I maintain this fascination - because of her, because of the landscapes, because I'm looking to hear from myself in a distant shore?
I will have a long meeting - I'm preparing it - to plan the entire 2007. It will be the next hours.
The good thing is that I will be traveling every month, sometimes to more than one country; the work load will be enormous; many more eyes will be focused in what I can and will not achieve.
The good part of it is that I will work with a super team, and I will get a lot out of it!!
Thinking about boredom
Things to do when you're bored
Quote:
Boredom: the desire for desires. (Anna Karenina)Leo Tolstoy
Looking outside the freak weather
The Mountain Goats
Orange Ball of Hate
When I hear the screeching weather vane
in the wild wind and the hissing rain
I know that one of us, I'm not saying who,
has got rocks in her head
as the rain comes through the open window
But you don't think so
I sure do love you
I sure do love you
When I notice that the radio is broken
I see you standing there in the doorway soaking
The water drizzles off of you down to the floor
and I say that I don't want to live in New England anymore
Some flower petals stick to your skin
I grab hold of your hip, and I pull you in
When the building establishes control
When the thunder from the north begins to roll down our way
I know I've been right all along
and you start singing that stupid children's song
You think I don't know it
but I just don't feel like singing it
I sure do love you
I sure do love you
but with music and tea and space
The quote of the day
"The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up."
Paul Valery
I'm working in a new plan to make 2007 a very good and different year.
I will be visiting my country and the other - my secret country - in a few days.
It is a trip, the one to my country, to revisit some feelings, to adjust my inner clock and to smile, the smile of her - one of the best smiles I ever saw in my life.
I will then go to my secret destination, some compealing visit to the sacred country. Don't ask me why I maintain this fascination - because of her, because of the landscapes, because I'm looking to hear from myself in a distant shore?
I will have a long meeting - I'm preparing it - to plan the entire 2007. It will be the next hours.
The good thing is that I will be traveling every month, sometimes to more than one country; the work load will be enormous; many more eyes will be focused in what I can and will not achieve.
The good part of it is that I will work with a super team, and I will get a lot out of it!!
Thinking about boredom
Things to do when you're bored
Quote:
Boredom: the desire for desires. (Anna Karenina)Leo Tolstoy
Looking outside the freak weather
The Mountain Goats
Orange Ball of Hate
When I hear the screeching weather vane
in the wild wind and the hissing rain
I know that one of us, I'm not saying who,
has got rocks in her head
as the rain comes through the open window
But you don't think so
I sure do love you
I sure do love you
When I notice that the radio is broken
I see you standing there in the doorway soaking
The water drizzles off of you down to the floor
and I say that I don't want to live in New England anymore
Some flower petals stick to your skin
I grab hold of your hip, and I pull you in
When the building establishes control
When the thunder from the north begins to roll down our way
I know I've been right all along
and you start singing that stupid children's song
You think I don't know it
but I just don't feel like singing it
I sure do love you
I sure do love you
13.12.06
Is wednesday
fast passing days...
i love see you moving
and her moving
and moving is lovely
so lovely as you
we all should be moving
in a constant flow
i love you moving!
be the stream
be the river
be the sea!
*****
One, two, three, four
Little yellow spider, laughing at the snow
Well maybe that spider knows something that I don't know
'Cause I'm goddamn cold
Little white monkey, staring at the sand
Well, maybe that monkey figured out something I couldn't understand
Who knows?
Well, I came upon a dancing crab, and I stopped to watch it shake
I said, "Dance for me just one more time
Before you hibernate and you come out a crab cake"
And hey there, little snapping turtle, snapping at a shell
Ah, there's mysteries inside, I know
But what they are I just can't tell for sure
And hey ya, little baby crow, you're looking kind of mean
I think I oughta spit before you start letting off your steam
For sure
And hey there, little sexy pig, you mated it with a man
And now you're got a little kid with hooves instead of hands
And oh, all of the animals
All of the animals
And hey there, little mockingbird, they sing about you in songs
Ah, where you been? Have you broke a wing?
I haven't heard you in so long
And hey there, little albatross, swimming in the air
Ah c'mon, you know I can't fly
And I, I think we really oughta play fair
And hey there, Mr. happy squid, you move so psychadelically
You hypnotize with your magic dance all the animals in the sea
For sure
And oh, all of the animals
All of the animals
And hey there, Mr. morning sun, what kind of creature are you?
I can't stare, but I know you're there
Goddamn, how I wish I knew
And hey there, Mrs. lovely moon, you're lonely and you're blue
It's kind of strange, the way you change
But then again, we all do too
Little Yellow Spider
Devendra Banhart
fast passing days...
i love see you moving
and her moving
and moving is lovely
so lovely as you
we all should be moving
in a constant flow
i love you moving!
be the stream
be the river
be the sea!
*****
One, two, three, four
Little yellow spider, laughing at the snow
Well maybe that spider knows something that I don't know
'Cause I'm goddamn cold
Little white monkey, staring at the sand
Well, maybe that monkey figured out something I couldn't understand
Who knows?
Well, I came upon a dancing crab, and I stopped to watch it shake
I said, "Dance for me just one more time
Before you hibernate and you come out a crab cake"
And hey there, little snapping turtle, snapping at a shell
Ah, there's mysteries inside, I know
But what they are I just can't tell for sure
And hey ya, little baby crow, you're looking kind of mean
I think I oughta spit before you start letting off your steam
For sure
And hey there, little sexy pig, you mated it with a man
And now you're got a little kid with hooves instead of hands
And oh, all of the animals
All of the animals
And hey there, little mockingbird, they sing about you in songs
Ah, where you been? Have you broke a wing?
I haven't heard you in so long
And hey there, little albatross, swimming in the air
Ah c'mon, you know I can't fly
And I, I think we really oughta play fair
And hey there, Mr. happy squid, you move so psychadelically
You hypnotize with your magic dance all the animals in the sea
For sure
And oh, all of the animals
All of the animals
And hey there, Mr. morning sun, what kind of creature are you?
I can't stare, but I know you're there
Goddamn, how I wish I knew
And hey there, Mrs. lovely moon, you're lonely and you're blue
It's kind of strange, the way you change
But then again, we all do too
Little Yellow Spider
Devendra Banhart
12.12.06
20.10.06
23.8.06
13.8.06
27.7.06
2.6.06
Darkness in the morning
Shadows on the land
Certain individuals
Aren't sticking with the plan
And I'm searching for a heart
Searching everyone
They say love conquers all
You can't start it like a car
You can't stop it with a gun
Leaving in the evening
Traveling at night
Staying inconspicuous
I'm staying out of sight
And I'm searching for a heart
Searching everyone
They say love conquers all
You can't start it like a car
You can't stop it with a gun
They tell me love requires a little standing in line
And I've been waiting for you, lover, for a long, long time
I've been pacing the floor
I've been watching the door
Meanwhile I'll keep searching for a heart
Searching high and low for you
Trying to track you down
Certain individuals
Have finally come around
And I'm searching for a heart
Searching everyone
They say love conquers all
You can't start it like a car
You can't stop it with a gun
They tell me love requires a little standing in line
And I've been waiting for you, lover, for a long, long time
I've been pacing the floor I've been watching the door
Meanwhile I'll keep searching for a heart
Searching everyone
They say love conquers all
You can't start it like a car
Warren Zevon
"Searching for A heart"
Because of you, M
because its you, setting my life on fire!...
... coming from nowhere.
Shadows on the land
Certain individuals
Aren't sticking with the plan
And I'm searching for a heart
Searching everyone
They say love conquers all
You can't start it like a car
You can't stop it with a gun
Leaving in the evening
Traveling at night
Staying inconspicuous
I'm staying out of sight
And I'm searching for a heart
Searching everyone
They say love conquers all
You can't start it like a car
You can't stop it with a gun
They tell me love requires a little standing in line
And I've been waiting for you, lover, for a long, long time
I've been pacing the floor
I've been watching the door
Meanwhile I'll keep searching for a heart
Searching high and low for you
Trying to track you down
Certain individuals
Have finally come around
And I'm searching for a heart
Searching everyone
They say love conquers all
You can't start it like a car
You can't stop it with a gun
They tell me love requires a little standing in line
And I've been waiting for you, lover, for a long, long time
I've been pacing the floor I've been watching the door
Meanwhile I'll keep searching for a heart
Searching everyone
They say love conquers all
You can't start it like a car
Warren Zevon
"Searching for A heart"
Because of you, M
because its you, setting my life on fire!...
... coming from nowhere.
Today again I am hardly myself.
It happens over and over.
It is heaven-sent.
It flows through me
like the blue wave.
Green leaves – you may believe this or not –
have once or twice
emerged from the tips of my fingers
somewhere
deep in the woods,
in the reckless seizure of spring.
Though, of course, I also know that other song,
the sweet passion of one-ness.
Just yesterday I watched an ant crossing a path, through the
tumbled pine needles she toiled.
And I thought: she will never live another life but this one.
And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength
is she not wonderful and wise?
And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything
until I came to myself.
And still, even in these northern woods, on these hills of sand,
I have flown from the other window of myself
to become white heron, blue whale,
red fox, hedgehog.
Oh, sometimes already my body has felt like the body of a flower!
Sometimes already my heart is a red parrot, perched
among strange, dark trees, flapping and screaming.
Reckless Poem
Mary Oliver
It happens over and over.
It is heaven-sent.
It flows through me
like the blue wave.
Green leaves – you may believe this or not –
have once or twice
emerged from the tips of my fingers
somewhere
deep in the woods,
in the reckless seizure of spring.
Though, of course, I also know that other song,
the sweet passion of one-ness.
Just yesterday I watched an ant crossing a path, through the
tumbled pine needles she toiled.
And I thought: she will never live another life but this one.
And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength
is she not wonderful and wise?
And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything
until I came to myself.
And still, even in these northern woods, on these hills of sand,
I have flown from the other window of myself
to become white heron, blue whale,
red fox, hedgehog.
Oh, sometimes already my body has felt like the body of a flower!
Sometimes already my heart is a red parrot, perched
among strange, dark trees, flapping and screaming.
Reckless Poem
Mary Oliver
26.5.06
Dear friends!
The day I've been waiting for has finally arrived. During the next 6 months I will be undergoing a treatment for a potential deadly health condition. The funny part of the story is that I will probably get sicker than I am now!
It is all a question mark. And I’m smiling of expectation!
Can I continue and feel like posting, can I continue to teach and travel around?
Can I continue to inspire or do I need someone to inspire me?
For the few of you following my path, a smile and keep in touch!
You know where my physical base is; to the others the virtual friends, see you around!
I leave you with a comment to a comment of mine (stolen from her inspirational blog)
"I'm smiling too!
Don't we learn most from our fallacies? And I wonder why we crave to make sense of life when it is full of Non Sequiturs.
Gratias!"
Tom Schamp
Night Boy
Illustration for children's book "Le livre des peut-être"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
