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  1. #511
    anneiam's Avatar
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    Default Desert Places - by Robert Frost

    Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
    In a field I looked into going past,
    And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
    But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

    The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
    All animals are smothered in their lairs.
    I am too absent-spirited to count;
    The loneliness includes me unawares.

    And lonely as it is that loneliness
    Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
    A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
    With no expression, nothing to express.

    They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
    Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
    I have it in me so much nearer home
    To scare myself with my own desert places.

  2. #512
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    Default from the poem "1994", from A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems 1979–1997


    VII

    ~by Wendell Berry


    I would not have been a poet
    except that I have been in love
    alive in this mortal world,
    or an essayist except that I
    have been bewildered and afraid,
    or a storyteller had I not heard
    stories passing to me through the air,
    or a writer at all except
    I have been wakeful at night
    and words have come to me
    out of their deep caves
    needing to be remembered.
    But on the days I am lucky
    or blessed, I am silent.
    I go into the one body
    that two make in making marriage
    that for all our trying, all
    our deaf-and-dumb of speech,
    has no tongue. Or I give myself
    to gravity, light, and air
    and am carried back
    to solitary work in fields
    and woods, where my hands
    rest upon a world unnamed,
    complete, unanswerable, and final
    as our daily bread and meat.
    The way of love leads all ways
    to life beyond words, silent
    and secret. To serve that triumph
    I have done all the rest.
    ***********************
    We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
    ~Joseph Campbell

    There are three kinds of people : Those who can count and those that can't.




  3. #513
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    Default from "All Tangled Up with the Living"

    Unfortunate Location

    ~Louis Jenkins
    In the front yard there are three big white pines, older
    than anything in the neighborhood except the stones.
    Magnificent trees that toss their heads in the wind
    like the spirited black horses of a troika. It's hard to
    know what to do, tall dark trees on the south side of
    the house, an unfortunate location, blocking the
    winter sun. Dark and damp. Moss grows on the roof,
    the porch timbers rot and surely the roots have
    reached the old bluestone foundation. At night, in
    the wind, a tree could stumble and fall killing us in
    our beds. The needles fall year after year making an
    acid soil where no grass grows. We rake the fallen
    debris, nothing to be done, we stand around with
    sticks in our hands. Wonderful trees.
    ***********************
    We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
    ~Joseph Campbell

    There are three kinds of people : Those who can count and those that can't.




  4. #514
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    Default from Mrs. Ramsay's Knee

    Recollection of Tranquility
    ~Idris Anderson

    The first time we ever quarreled
    you were cutting an onion
    in the kitchen of our rented cottage.
    I remember vividly. We were making creole
    for a late night supper with champagne,
    and you were taking it seemed forever
    to cut the onion.
    Each time your dull paring knife
    chopped on the counter, I shifted my feet,
    and I saw once in a glimpse over my shoulder
    a white wedge of onion wobbling loose.
    I sighed inaudibly. The butter I stirred
    had already bubbled and browned.
    I was starting over with a new yellow lump
    that was slipping on the silver aluminum
    when you brought, cupped in your hands,
    the broken pieces, the edges all ragged,
    the layers separated, bruised and oozing
    cloudy white onion juice.
    I complained:
    the family recipe stated specifically,
    the onion must be "finely chopped,"
    for what I explained were very good reasons.
    Otherwise, the pungent flavors would be trapped
    irrevocably in the collapsed cellular structure
    of the delicate root.

    You sighed, I guess, inaudibly
    and adjusted your glasses carefully
    with two fingers (a fidget
    I have since come to know
    as a sign of mild perturbation)
    and explained:
    the pungence of onions too finely chopped
    would be simmered away. The original sharp
    burning crispness could be retained
    only in fairly large, bite-sized chunks.
    But you wouldn't fight tradition.
    I chopped onion on the counter
    with the dull knife, while you set the table
    and figured the best way of popping the cork.
    ***********************
    We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
    ~Joseph Campbell

    There are three kinds of people : Those who can count and those that can't.




  5. #515
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    Default Emily Dickinson

    We grow accustomed to the Dark
    When Light is put away
    As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
    To witness her Goodbye

    A Moment - We uncertain step
    For newness of the night
    Then - fit our Vision to the Dark
    And meet the Road - erect

    And so of larger - Darknesses
    Those Evenings of the Brain
    When not a Moon disclose a sign
    Or Star - come out - within

    The Bravest - grope a little
    And sometimes hit a Tree
    Directly in the Forehead
    But as they learn to see

    Either the Darkness alters
    Or something in the sight
    Adjusts itself to Midnight
    And Life steps almost straight.

  6. #516
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    Default

    Wild Geese
    Mary Oliver

    You do not have to be good.
    You do not have to walk on your knees
    for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
    You only have to let the soft animal of your body
    love what it loves.
    Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
    Meanwhile the world goes on.
    Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
    are moving across the landscapes,
    over the prairies and the deep trees,
    the mountains and the rivers.
    Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
    are heading home again.
    Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
    the world offers itself to your imagination,
    call to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
    over and over announcing your place
    in the family of things.

  7. #517
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    Default

    Fashion a lean-to near the place
    We once named Place To Find A Sparking Stone.

    Lie down on the yellow sand that will adapt
    And hollow to what does not yield in you.
    You will be warm enough.

    I will not be there, but you will hear me
    In the surf's slap and gallop on the roundest rocks.

    I will not be there, but around the time
    The earth rises to sun,
    A grey whale, migrating, will be close enough
    For its breath to enter your dreams.
    This will make you long for my breathing.
    The scents of papaya and jasmine.

    Almost awake, you will recall painting a prayer
    On the leathery, sage back of Honu.
    The prayer of safe returns.
    The prayer of the circle in all things.
    But I will not be there.

    My body is holding the edges.
    My soul is a swimmer.
    My self is the journey.
    I am far, far off.

    I will not be there.

    But on the spit and the break
    Of this most desolate of lands,
    I will comb your hair while you wake.
    And while I sleep, loving.



    12pm - 2005

  8. #518
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    Default a passage to India

    no, i can't quite let it go this way
    you, with the fallen rocks scratching a smart coat
    and butter, beating a stride straight to a louisiana steamboat.
    no lobster and etouffee for you - migrant citrus grower.
    your fruits do grow tiresome and bitter quickly. so un-kiwi.
    but i will not let it go
    the tunnel, a white alcove in greece
    with sharp sun and shadows only breath and touching
    could web
    a still repose that gathers some symphony to jade waters
    a beauty in two mouths, owls free to dance and wade in dark
    dark, dark quiet of the small glass at night. those few small glasses.
    we're yet to catch that statued embrace
    a yearning, stronger than a kiss, yet enough
    enough to catch an egyptian mockingbird in a japanese monastery
    a templed bench; perhaps shadowed there?
    with so many shadows to steal and the scream of the bamboo
    i swear, silencing All thought
    perhaps there we will find our last
    open butterfly mouth
    our own monarch
    just a throated, flowing call.



    lucynymph - 2005

  9. #519
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    Default

    Man is not a toy whose function is prearranged; his link to infinity assures him access to endless possibilities…

    - Elie Wiesel

  10. #520
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    Default

    Gravity (great song)
    Sara Bareilles


    Something always brings me back to you.
    It never takes too long.
    No matter what I say or do
    I'll still feel you here 'til the moment I'm gone.

    You hold me without touch.
    You keep me without chains.
    I never wanted anything so much
    than to drown in your love and not feel your rain.

    Set me free, leave me be.
    I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity.
    Here I am and I stand so tall,
    just the way I'm supposed to be.
    But you're on to me and all over me.

    You loved me 'cause I'm fragile.
    When I thought that I was strong.
    But you touch me for a little while
    and all my fragile strength is gone.


    I live here on my knees as I
    try to make you see
    that you're everything I think I need
    here on the ground.
    But you're neither friend nor foe
    though I can't seem to let you go.
    The one thing that I still know
    is that you're keeping me down
    You're on to me, on to me, and all over...

    Something always brings me back to you.
    It never takes too long.

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