Poetry

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.

The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

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.

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

William

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
Little seashells.
I would keep him always in my
Mind’s eye…
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
Calling mine.
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

According to local legend, Theodore Roethke, upon hearing word that he had been awarded the Pulitzer Prize, turned to the class he was teaching (someone had popped in to tell him the news) and cried, "To the Moon!" Read more about Wintery

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?

The sixth of January is the traditional day of Epiphany in the Western Church, the last day of Christmas, and the day I generally begin to think about taking the tree down. Note the ambivalence. Read more about Epiphany

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.

Read more about Comfort Ye