Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

“Metempsychosis”

July 7, 2010

“Then the bees of self pour from the hive-door,
ravenous to enter the sweetness of flowering nettles and thistle.

Next comes the ringing a stone or violin or empty bucket
gives off
the immeasurable’s continuous singing,
before it goes back into story and feeling.” by Jane Hirshfield

Via Thrown Down Flowers

Yeah, that’s actually pretty much how it’s supposed to work.

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“To Myself”

June 9, 2010

While I’m still on the subject of poems, one of my clients recently felt compelled to send me one. It seemed tremendously fitting. Thank you.

To Myself

Even when I forget you

I go on looking for you

I believe I would know you

I keep remembering you

Sometimes long ago but then

other times I am sure you

were here a moment before

and the air is still alive

around where you were and I

think then I can recognize

you who are always the same

who pretend to be time but

you are not time and who speak

the words but you are not

what they say you who are not

lost when I do not find you

– W.S. Merwin

It Isn’t Scary

May 28, 2010

It isn’t scary, to be out of your head if you’ve poured out the darkness that lives in your heart and the pain that lives in your body. When your heart is awake you don’t need to guard it. When your body is awake you don’t need to mind it.

You’re more than your head and you’re only afraid because you’ve forgot. “What will happen when the surface has gone away?” The inside will come out to play.

What seeds have you sewn in your secret garden? Have you sewn love in your hands? Have you sewn a lucid light in your heart?

You are not the eye. You is more than what you see. The eye is just one point of change, where a decision can be made.

Wilderness Gothic

December 3, 2009

“Across Roblin Lake, two shores away,
they are sheathing the church spire
with new metal. Someone hangs in the sky
over there from a piece of rope,
hammering and fitting God’s belly-scratcher,
working his way up along the spire
until there’s nothing left to nail on—
Perhaps the workman’s faith reaches beyond:
touches intangibles, wrestles with Jacob,
replacing rotten timber with pine thews,
pounds hard in the blue cave of the sky,
contends heroically with difficult problems of
gravity, sky navigation and mythopeia,
his volunteer time and labor donated to God,
minus sick benefits of course on a non-union job—

Fields around are yellowing into harvest,
nestling and fingerling are sky and water borne,
death is yodeling quiet in green woodlots,
and bodies of three young birds have disappeared
in the sub-surface of the new county highway—

That picture is incomplete, part left out
that might alter the whole Dürer landscape:
gothic ancestors peer from medieval sky,
dour faces trapped in photograph albums escaping
to clop down iron roads with matched grays:
work-sodden wives groping inside their flesh
for what keeps moving and changing and flashing
beyond and past the long frozen Victorian day.
A sign of fire and brimstone? A two-headed calf
born in the barn last night? A sharp female agony?
An age and a faith moving into transition,
the dinner cold and new-baked bread a failure,
deep woods shiver and water drops hang pendant,
double yolked eggs and the house creaks a little—
Something is about to happen. Leaves are still.
Two shores away, a man hammering in the sky.
Perhaps he will fall.”

– Al Purdy, Wilderness Gothic

I don’t make predictions, but there comes a sense. A pregnant waiting, filled with the possibility of obscenity, or transformation. Something must happen. Will it?

Al Purdy “On Being Human”

September 12, 2009

This is terribly beautiful to me, and says something very important about being human over the last little while on Earth and, more broadly, on being alive.

Gordon Pinsent is an iconic Canadian actor and was amazing in this whole series. I highly recommend It.