“In some ways poetry is most akin to magic. Every poem is a sort of spell.”
– A New Treasury of Poetry, Compiled by Neil Philip
Holding a tiny fluffy life in your very own hands is a sort of poem too, don’t you think?
You’re like a little wild thing
that was never sent to school.
Sit, I say, and you jump up.
Come, I say, and you go galloping down the sand
to the nearest dead fish
with which you perfume your sweet neck.
It is summer.
How many summers does a little dog have?
Run, run, Percy.
This is our school.
– Mary Oliver
I think Mary Oliver would have made a wonderful homeschooling mom . . . for dogs and kids!
With What Hope
did you write your way into paradox,
hands lit by thorns
and the creek
holding marsh marigolds under pines
unimaginable last spring?
this passageway over the swale
where willow tips reach upward,
gather the sap of earth
and visible as soon as we arrive.
Do we belong here?
Merely by walking with bare feet,
and what’s within comes without
In her generosity
she makes herself susceptible
Everything comes to drink with
a winter’s worth of thirst,
parched lips –
and still, she flows.
I fell in love with this wild rose bush over the winter. Finding her was like walking into the promise of one of my favorite poems.
With the help of my loyal photo assistant, Ellen, I’m planning to take photos in this spot over the next few months and watch this rose unfold its “givingness.”
Sometimes it’s these unexplainable little projects that wake me up at night. And I have to follow them. I have to follow the calling of the wild rose.
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
watching him work with a spoon
in the emerging mud
layers of ice
ice once so hard,
impossible to break through.
Remember the morning we couldn’t leave,
couldn’t get into our car
covered in ice so thick, so cold
the doors frozen shut?
Remember the night we couldn’t speak
because there was so much frozen
When we cut them
down in the swamp
the fuzz was nearly invisible,
still tucked inside.
Two days in the house,
and here they are.
Warmth does that.