Zane Kathryne Schwaiger

Dusk

220 :: Dusk

it’s the color of dusk
when I am captive
on the bed with a nursing toddler
who won’t let go of my breast
and who won’t let go into sleep
because the world is too full
of wonderful things
and he says “turn off the light”
but there is no light on
to turn off –
only the soft glow of blue dusk
filling the room,
begging for a poem,
calling me to write
before I am claimed by dreams
and night

Quiet Work

185 :: Quiet Work

My sanctuary.
With roses.

I’ve shared this poem before, haven’t I?  Here it is, again.

Wild Rosebush

How it stands out against the darkenings
of the rainy evening, young and pure,
its tendrils arched everywhere in givingness
yet absorbed in its own rose-being;

the shallow flowers, already open here and there,
each unasked for and untended:
thus, immeasurably exceeded by itself
and indescribably self-aroused,

it calls to the wander, who in his evening
meditating comes past along the road:
Oh look at me, see, over here, how safe I am
and unprotected and having all I need.

— Rainer Maria Rilke

Graduate Studies in Poetry

79 :: Graduate Studies in Poetry

I’m designing myself a graduate program in poetry.

I received an unexpected gift this year: a reawakening of my deep love for poetry. I’m following this love by consuming great quantities of poems and filling notebooks with words. I wish we lived close to a university so I could attend an actual graduate program. But for now, my mom, my dear friends, my professor brother, and the wonderful library are all keeping me supplied and inspired.

And, to tell you the truth, most days my graduate studies look something like this . . .

80 :: Napping and Poetry