TODAY I WAS SO HAPPY, SO I MADE THIS POEM
As the plump squirrel scampers
Across the roof of the corncrib,
The moon suddenly stands up in the darkness,
And I see that it is impossible to die.
Each moment of time is a mountain.
An eagle rejoices in the oak trees of heaven,
This is what I wanted.
TO THE FOX FERN
Haunter of woods, lone wilds and solitudes
Where none but feet of birds and things as wild
Doth print a foot track near, where summer’s light
Buried in boughs forgets its glare and round thy crimped leaves
Feints in a quiet dimness fit for musings
And melancholy moods, with here and there
A golden thread of sunshine stealing through
The evening shadowy leaves that seem to creep
Like leisure in the shade.
Partly for everyone, but mostly for Joshua Ware, I finally figured out how to enable comments on this thing. So feel free to go at it—praise, prod, punish, whatever.
*Note: it appears you may have to go to the permalink of the post to write a comment.
Starting tomorrow, I’ll be in Milwaukee until Sunday. I’ve never been to Milwaukee. In fact, all I know about Milwaukee comes from Alice Cooper in Wayne’s World. What should I do in Milwaukee?
***Thanks, Lucy—I think I’m all set now!
that there is no such place as Mexico.
When I opened the kitchen cupboard
I found the truth
by labels on tins.
The rice grains
are resting after the centuries.
the wind goes on on its way.
Because it is soon, it has a private and quiet
spring. Before the birds come, before
another leaf or flower, it flowers; and bees
come there and enter and leave, thick
with pollen. Foetid, even in the thin chill
of a wintry spring, it stinks of livingness,
rawness. Its color also is of skin
rubbed raw by wind, by cold, by sun,
and the flesh showing through. It is the flesh
responding to warmth, to sun, to the first spring.
It looks like tenderness, the way it curves
upward and beaks over to cover within.
Today, my love,
leaves are thrashing the wind
just as pedestrians are erecting again the buildings of this drab
and our lives, as I lose track of them,
are the lives of others derailing in time and
getting things done.
Impossible to make sense of any one face
or mouth, though
is clear, and you are miles
Let your pure
space crowd my heart,
that we might stay a while longer amid the flying
I swear it,
isn’t going anywhere.
J. Vera Lee
I took a stone valley into my heart
as does a willow in yellow buds
the weaving rain
to find a certain clock:
the cherry trees are thickening, the cherry trees are
Red tubes for hummingbirds are likewise
and the pearl, once taken,
will leaf out
into an oyster; the fish table acquired
like a beautiful stranger.