a woman I met at breakfast at the Sylvia last week said she loved Mary Oliver. When I told her I had brought a volume of Oliver's poetry with me, she wanted to know if I had a copy of this poem. It wasn't in the collection I brought with me, which was , so I wanted to post it for her here, in case she's ever listening.
Valentine's Day dawns tomorrow, and with it, my birthday. These days I love the sunrise, these days I am eager for the day to begin, to rise and take up where I left off. But I remember days when sunrise was not so welcome, when I did not want to get out of bed, because the things I had to do were not the things I loved, or there were tasks I dreaded to take up, and, every once in a while, because there was a lover beside me whom I did not want to leave.
Read more about The Sun Rising
Even those of us in the land of rain begin to think that a little sun wouldn't hurt that much.
Loud are the thunder drums in the tents of the mountains.
Oh, long, long
Have we eaten chia seeds
and dried deer's flesh of the summer killing.
We are tired of our huts
and the smoky smell of our clothing.
We are sick with the desire for the sun
And the grass on the mountain.
- Paiute Late Winter Song* Read more about Long About Now
Read more about The Things We Do For Love>
Now there’s William. He comes
Pecking like a bird, at my
Heart. His eyebrows are like the
Feathers of a wren. His ears are
I would keep him always in my
Whatever he does, he’ll want
The world to do it in. Maybe,
Who knows, he’ll want this very
Room which, only for convenience,
I realize, I’ve been
I feel myself begin to wilt, like
An old flower, weak in the stem.
But he is irresistible! Whatever
He wants of mine-my room,
Ronald Reagan's inaugural Morning in America did not come with a poem. Which explains a lot, if you ask me. Read more about Mornings in America
Harvey Washington Wiley isn't a name I had known before reading the March 1912 issue of The National Geographic Magazine, but if you are among those who care about the quality of your food supply, you should, perhaps, build a little shrine to him somewhere in your kitchen. Read more about What's In It?
Well, I tried. I Googled "Boxing Day Poems" and came up with some of the worst poems I've read in a long time. It doesn't seem to be a day that inspires. It's not even a day anybody outside of the shrinking British Empire knows anything about.
I actually am filling boxes of things for the poor - my poor daughter, who just moved out and has still to collect an Armageddon's worth of flotsam and jetsam. Read more about Boxing Day
So soon after this year's Massacre of the Innocents, I can think of only one piece of poetry, one piece of music, one piece of age-old longing for deliverance from pain and sorrow, that will do.
George Frideric Handel's Messiah. Which begins with the words Comfort ye, comfort ye my people.