Der Schlafwandler

dear earth
white dirty
pure black
blue and dreamy

what shatters
the snowberry moon
whose night fell
startled?

was it the mind
calling on blood
to the waking spot?

or was it the feather white
morning star circling
the sleepwalker?


for nelly sachs,

pond down dark

by Clifford C. Ummings

to live in lily light
cool water
pond down dark

it was the city which took
the knapsack to the
range mountain small

caught with eyes
put right by dew

had she known the backyard
cage would break
she would have summered
in the dusty foul

denied the part
which is the
mystery cruel

listen to the important nothing
mournful hearts account
reeds into water flare

frantic pink circles
the victory uncertain
darkness splashes sweet

Turtle

by Mary Oliver

Now I see it–
it nudges with its bulldog head
the slippery stems of the lilies, making them tremble
and now it noses along in the wake of the little brown teal

who is leading her soft children
from one side of the pond to the other; she keeps
close to the edge
and they follow closely, the good children–

the tender children,
the sweet children, dangling their pretty feet
into the darkness.
And now will come–I can count on it–the murky splash

the certain victory
of that pink and gassy mouth, and the frantic
circling of the hen while the rest of the chicks
flare away over the water and into the reeds, and my heart

will be most mournful
on their account. But, listen,
what’s important?
Nothing’s important

except that the great and cruel mystery of the world,
of which this is a part,
not be denied. Once,
I happened to see, on a city street, in summer,

a dusty, fouled turtle plodding along–
a snapper–
broken out I suppose from some backyard cage–
and I knew what I had to do–

I looked it right in the eyes, and I caught it–
I put it, like a small mountain range,
into a knapsack, and I took it out
of the city, and I let it

down into the dark pond, into
the cool water,
and the light of the lilies,
to live

This Is the One

by Mary Oliver

The bear
  who shuffles
    over the hillsides
      filling himself

with berries
  until his tongue is purple
    (which, remember, is
      a royal color)--

the bear
  who circles the cabin,
    who will not steal the honey,
      who will not rifle the knapsack

of the sleeping camper--
  the one
    who sits by himself
      by the river,

who sings to himself
  the secret song
    no one has ever heard--
      the bear

who yawns
  with the cavernous mouth
    of a shaggy god--
      who, when he sees me

is solidly silent
  and rises
    on the mass of his legs,
      disdainful and free

as anything on earth
  could ever be--
    this is the bear
      I want to see.

Thinking Inkly: A Little Bit of Love for You

Little Spud In The Big Apple

I’m thinking about why I do this.

Thinking about why this one way communication takes place between us. I’m thinking about what possesses me to be a part of this maddening process where I stay up hours and nights, dreaming and dozing and starting and nodding my way through the lines and the path and the word, just to try to find the clarity in the chaos.I do it for you.

I hope that you know that, and if you didn’t know it I hope that you know it now. I hope that you see the purity of my intention to just stagger into the scene, half-drunk, tripping over a fold in God’s bathrobe and falling to the floor, cursing and sputtering little bits and bubbles of spit the whole way.

I do it because I love the fall. I do it because each time, each fall, is a reminder…

View original post 745 more words

Glare / Strip / #4

hear me, O Lord, from the height of
the high place, where speaking is not

necessary to hearing and hearing is
in all languages: hear me, please,

have mercy, for I have hurt people,
though I think not much and where

much never intentionally and I have
accumulated a memory (and some heavy

fantasy) guilt-ridden and as a
nonreligious person, I have no way

to assuage, relieve, or forgive
myself: I work and work to try to

redeem old wrong with present good:
but I’m not even sure my good is good

or who it’s really for: I figure I
can be forgiven, nearly;, at least,

by forgiving, that is, by understanding
that others, too, are caught up in

flurries of passion, of anger and
resentment and, my, my, jealousy and

that coincidences and unintentional
accidents of unwinding ways can’t

be foreknown: what is started here,
say, cannot be told just where to

go and can’t be halted midway and
can’t, worst, be brought

back and started over: we are not,
O You, at the great height, whoever

you are or whatever, if anything, we
are not in charge, even though we

riddle localities with plans,
schemes, too, and devices, some of

them shameful or shameless: half-guilty
in most cases, sometimes in all, we

are half-guilty, and we live in
pain but may we suffer in your cool

presence, may we weep in your surround-
ing that already has understood:

we could not walk here without our
legs, and our feet kill, our

steps however careful: if you can
send no word silently healing. I

mean if it is not proper or realistic
to send word, actual lips saying

these broken sounds, why, may we be
allowed to suppose that we can work

this stuff out the best we can and
having felt out our sins to their

deepest definitions, may we walk with
you as along a line of trees, every

now and then your clarity and warmth
shattering across our shadowed way

 

 

A.R. Ammons

 

Snow Geese by Mary Oliver

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
    What a task
      to ask

of anything, or anyone,

yet it is ours,
    and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.

One fall day I heard
  above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was

a flock of snow geese, winging it
    faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun

so they were, in part at least, golden. I

held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us

as with a match
which is lit, and bright, 
but does not hurt
in the common way,
but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.

The geese
flew on.
I have never 
seen them again,

Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.