Who slept alone to know it?
Who could have told you
That the nights in autumn
Are indeed extremely long?
— Takashina Kishi
Friday, September 29, 2006
Suddenly...
Would it not take one
Who slept alone to know it?
Who could have told you
That the nights in autumn
Are indeed extremely long?
Who slept alone to know it?
Who could have told you
That the nights in autumn
Are indeed extremely long?
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
Yes, that's what I want...
"Success is getting what you want. Happiness is wanting what you get."
— Heard on the radio; I missed the source.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Press on!
"Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is filled with educated derelicts. Persistence and determination are alone omnipotent. 'Press on!' has been and always will be the answer to every human problem."
Calvin Coolidge
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond
As for life
I'm humbled,
I'm without words
sufficient to say
how it has been hard as flint,
and soft as a spring pond
both of these
and over and over,
and long pale afternoons besides,
and so many mysteries
beautiful as eggs in a nest,
still unhatched
though warm and watched over
by something I have never seen—
a tree angel, perhaps,
or a ghost of holiness.
Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
It suffices, it is all comfort—
along with human love,
dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
flying among the scarlet flowers.
There is hardly time to think about
stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
As for death,
I can't wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?
I'm humbled,
I'm without words
sufficient to say
how it has been hard as flint,
and soft as a spring pond
both of these
and over and over,
and long pale afternoons besides,
and so many mysteries
beautiful as eggs in a nest,
still unhatched
though warm and watched over
by something I have never seen—
a tree angel, perhaps,
or a ghost of holiness.
Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
It suffices, it is all comfort—
along with human love,
dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
flying among the scarlet flowers.
There is hardly time to think about
stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
As for death,
I can't wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?
– Mary Oliver
from Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays
from Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays
Lord, It Is Time
Lord, it is time. The summer was very big.
Lay Thy shadow on the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds go loose.
Command the last fruits that they shall be full,
give them another two more southerly days,
press them on to fulfillment and drive
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Who has no house will build him one no more.
Who is alone now, long will so remain,
will wake, read, write long letters
and will in the avenue to and fro
restlessly wander, when the leaves are blowing.
Lay Thy shadow on the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds go loose.
Command the last fruits that they shall be full,
give them another two more southerly days,
press them on to fulfillment and drive
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Who has no house will build him one no more.
Who is alone now, long will so remain,
will wake, read, write long letters
and will in the avenue to and fro
restlessly wander, when the leaves are blowing.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Autumn in the Air
How quickly the change comes —
A few cool nights
And suddenly the deer
can’t get enough to eat;
they come out earlier and
linger later, hurrying to
put on fat against the winter.
The night sounds, too, go on through
these overcast days, insects
frantic for mates, for offspring.
Me, I consume peaches voraciously
peach dumplings, peach pie
fists full of peaches, not ready
to give them up, not ready yet
to embrace apples. Reluctant
like the trees whose chlorophyll
begins its slow bleeding toward
the roots, already a shade paler
but green still, still thirsting for
the sun. I know that thirst,
I know that draining feeling,
that anxious urge to take in more,
just a little more
against the chill
and the quickening days,
reluctant to let go of a
lifelong season of dreams and desires
and face the inevitably waning light.
12 September 2006
A few cool nights
And suddenly the deer
can’t get enough to eat;
they come out earlier and
linger later, hurrying to
put on fat against the winter.
The night sounds, too, go on through
these overcast days, insects
frantic for mates, for offspring.
Me, I consume peaches voraciously
peach dumplings, peach pie
fists full of peaches, not ready
to give them up, not ready yet
to embrace apples. Reluctant
like the trees whose chlorophyll
begins its slow bleeding toward
the roots, already a shade paler
but green still, still thirsting for
the sun. I know that thirst,
I know that draining feeling,
that anxious urge to take in more,
just a little more
against the chill
and the quickening days,
reluctant to let go of a
lifelong season of dreams and desires
and face the inevitably waning light.
12 September 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
9/11
Grant them rest, grant them peace, grant us peace...
For the Falling Man
I see you again and again
tumbling out of the sky,
in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.
At first I thought you were debris
from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall
or fuselage but then I realized
that people were leaping.
I know who you are, I know
there's more to you than just this image
on the news, this ragdoll plummeting—
I know you were someone's lover, husband,
daddy. Last night you read stories
to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep
next to your wife. Perhaps there was small
sleepy talk of the future. Then,
before your morning coffee had cooled
you'd come to this; a choice between fire
or falling.
How feeble these words, billowing
in this aftermath, how ineffectual
this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly
it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths
—but we can't help ourselves—how I wish
we could trade them for something
that could really have caught you.
For the Falling Man
I see you again and again
tumbling out of the sky,
in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.
At first I thought you were debris
from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall
or fuselage but then I realized
that people were leaping.
I know who you are, I know
there's more to you than just this image
on the news, this ragdoll plummeting—
I know you were someone's lover, husband,
daddy. Last night you read stories
to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep
next to your wife. Perhaps there was small
sleepy talk of the future. Then,
before your morning coffee had cooled
you'd come to this; a choice between fire
or falling.
How feeble these words, billowing
in this aftermath, how ineffectual
this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly
it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths
—but we can't help ourselves—how I wish
we could trade them for something
that could really have caught you.
by Annie Farnsworth from Bodies of Water, Bodies of Light
© Annie Farnsworth. Courtesy of the Writer's Almanac
© Annie Farnsworth. Courtesy of the Writer's Almanac
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