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“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.”
– Thornton Wilder (1897-1975),
American playwright and novelist.
“If we surrendered to earth’s intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees. “
— Rainer Maria Rilke (Rainer Maria Rilke’s Book of Hours: A Complete New Translation with Commentary)
Today marks the death of John Keats in 1821 at the age of 25.
Here’s to you John…
On leaving some Friends at an early Hour
GIVE me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heap’d up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when ’tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
And let there glide by many a pearly car,
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
For what a height my spirit is contending!
’Tis not content so soon to be alone.
| Dust of Snow | |
| by Robert Frost (1923) | |
 |
|
The way a crow
|
Spring Snow (In the Next Galaxy, Copper Canyon Press, 2002)
Rain of remembering;
late snow turning to rain.
Then in the cold house,
alone in bed,
the soft stutter on the roof,
random phrases; your voice,
only your voice. How can
it be that voice that touched
me everywhere?
And what you said,
if only I could hear it again
in its intensity.
Essence distilled
in the moment of waking,
the delicate mold and odors
of the breaking apart of winter,
in the soft snow that comes
between the past and the chill
distillation, the whisper of air
split between the perfume
of melting crystals; the clasp
and letting go.
http://www.npr.org/programs/atc/features/2004/jul/ruthstone/
The Poet’s Loft in Hot Springs, Arkansas is celebrating their 20th year anniversary this month! Poetry Readings every Wednesday night. Check out their website: http://www.thepoetsloft.com/
The Tuesday Night Reading Series, hosted by William Sovern (photo above), was the place to be tonight at the Poet House & Art Emporium at 105 Adams Avenue in Evansville, Indiana. Tonight’s featured artists were Memphis poets Quincy Hall and Naja (Lauren Mazer, photo below). If you have a chance to hear Quincy and Naja read their poems, don’t miss it! Powerful, lyrical stuff!
One of my favorite authors is Annie Dillard. I have never forgotten the wonderful passage in her book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, where she mentions Martin Buber who quotes an Hasidic master:
When you walk across the fields with your mind pure and holy, then from all the stones, and all growing things, and all animals, the sparks of their soul come out and cling to you and then they are purified and become a holy fire in you.
TURNING GREEN
I’d like to be the moss growing on a stone.
Can you hear me through all that green?
I want to know:
What is it like to see the sun dappled
on your face all day long?
What is it like to hear countless
drops of rain become true song?
What is it like to feel the feet
of butterflies dancing in your dew?
Can you smell the pine trees
better than I?
Do you grasp each moment
and hold it closer to your heart?
I hear your answer and accept with grace.
Now I understand.
I am the scent of the pine tree
and the feet of butterflies dancing.
I am the rain and the countless drops
of true song.
I am the sun, the stone
and the moss. Growing, I am
turning green.
(1999)
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