poetry

Weren’t We

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I saw two young lovers on the beach
And longed for that untried love again.
We were like that, weren’t we?
Ruddy in our youth,
Lost to all others and enthralled
In our youth.

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Laundry

My husband was stressed out from work, from traveling so much. So I asked him, “What can I do?” and he said, “laundry.”

windy on laundry day….

Richard Wilbur
Love Calls Us To The Things of This World
The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.
                     Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.
    Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;
    Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
                                             The soul shrinks
    From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessèd day,
And cries,
               “Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.”
    Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world’s hunks and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,
    “Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits,
                     keeping their difficult balance.”

The Other Day

The Other day, as I was driving I saw a little flock of birds alight a wire.

They went up and down in a wave and settled near the traffic light.

It was red,

and I stared at them and thought of how they moved as one.

How strange.

Like seeing instead of hearing a four part harmony.

How do they know where to be so perfectly?

Remaking

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In the mornings you smoothed the sheets.
If I was up early,
I’d watch your ringed hand glide
across the textured quilt.

Once I asked why
you were left to the remaking.

No matter.

you said,

He has other work.

And I  young  (untried)
and privy to  such encounters still,
felt stupid to have asked.

Alice Oswald

Alice Oswald is my newest literary obsession. I stumbled upon this article a few months ago which intrigued me. So, I went out and bought her book Woods etc. and was not disappointed. Her verse skillfully drifts in and out of strict meter, but it is only in the echo of her words that you realize the movements’ absolute perfection. She is an extremely talented poet. She draws her inspiration from nature and antiquity the combination creates a unique and grounded style. She is a naturalist, a classicists, but not a romantic.

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Alice Oswald

I particularly love this picture of Oswald at her home with the books cascading down the steps. (She is a mother of three children). 

 

A Poem for The Baby Album

to capture the moment

I take a picture of you-

those unrivaled rolls and cheeks.

(ah! that baby skin! that smile!)

Now, when you’re older I’m assured

to remember you, so perfectly encapsulated!

Yet I know you’ll be changed, grown

unfolded into maturity and real.

And I’ll look at the glossed relic

not with recollection

only disbelief.