I am so haunted by moments of imperfection that I actually dream about them. Last night, for instance. A lovely dream. Rare for me. And then - and then - I screw it up. Some little thoughtless thing that I do earns me disapproval from whoever that was in the dream in whose approval I was basking. Story of my life. So this morning what should the universe send me but this delightful piece from Poetry Daily. Read more about Imperfection


Giving God What For

Job's wife, addressing God:

All You can seem to do is lose Your temper
When reason-hungry mortals ask for reasons.
Of course, in the abstract high singular
There isn't any universal reason;
And no one but a man would think there was.
You don't catch women trying to be Plato.
Still there must be lots of unsystematic
Stray scraps of palliative reason
It wouldn't hurt You to vouchsafe the faithful.

-lines 135-143

Job, addressing God:

You have it in for women, she believes.
Kipling invokes you as Lord God of Hosts.

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Springtime Emily

1860, #162,

Emily Dickinson

Some Rainbow -- coming from the Fair!
Some Vision of the World Cashmere --
I confidently see!
Or else a Peacock's purple Train
Feather by feather -- on the plain
Fritters itself away!

The dreamy Butterflies bestir!
Lethargic pools resume the whir
Of last year's sundered tune!
From some old Fortress on the sun
Baronial Bees -- march -- one by one --
In murmuring platoon!

The Robins stand as thick today

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Pope Pouri

Just spent an hour of my day awaiting the ascension of Pope Francis I - a kindly man, to judge by his eyes. For the sake of believers, I'm glad of the choice. But then, what poem to choose for the day? Why, who else than that Pope of Poets, Alexander? And what other poem than one celebrating the classic clerical tragedy of Abelard and Eloise. Now, I didn't read the thing all the way through , but here's the nut of the thing. And a link to the whole, should you have another hour or two to spend in the 18th Century. Read more about Pope Pouri


It's Early, But

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?
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The Sun Rising

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

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