How We Disappear

I am in the store touching things.

Linen napkins, a blue bowl.

The world is on fire and I am choosing

between two kinds of soap.

Everyone here is doing this, filling carts

with small comforts while somewhere a child

goes to bed hungry, while the earth heats,

while men make decisions about who gets to live.

I know what this is, this careful arranging

while everything collapses.

This is how we survive.

And also how we disappear.

—Alessandra Olanow

In Praise of My Bed

 

At last I can be with you!
The grinding hours
since I left your side!
The labor of being fully human,
working my opposable thumb,
talking, and walking upright.
Now I have unclasped
unzipped, stepped out of.
Husked, soft, a be-er only,
I do nothing, but point
my bare feet into your
clean smoothness
feel your quiet strength
the whole length of my body.
I close my eyes, hear myself
moan, so grateful to be held this way.

—Meredith Holmes

Poppies

 

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But also I say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—

and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?

—Mary Oliver

[Painting by my mother].

Evidence

 

I.

Where do I live? If I had no address, as many people
do not, I could nevertheless say that I lived in the
same town as the lilies of the field, and the still
waters.

Spring, and all through the neighborhood now there are
strong men tending flowers.

Beauty without purpose is beauty without virtue. But
all beautiful things, inherently, have this function -
to excite the viewers toward sublime thought. Glory
to the world, that good teacher.

Among the swans there is none called the least, or
the greatest.

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in
singing, especially when singing is not necessarily
prescribed.

As for the body, it is solid and strong and curious
and full of detail; it wants to polish itself; it
wants to love another body; it is the only vessel in
the world that can hold, in a mix of power and
sweetness: words, song, gesture, passion, ideas,
ingenuity, devotion, merriment, vanity, and virtue.

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.

2.

There are many ways to perish, or to flourish.

How old pain, for example, can stall us at the threshold of function….

Still friends, consider stone, that is without the fret of gravity, and water that is without anxiety.

And the pine trees that never forget their recipe for renewal.

And the female wood duck who is looking this way and that way for her children. And the snapping turtle who is looking this way and that way also. This is the world.

And consider, always, every day, the determination of the grass to grow despite the unending obstacles.

3.

I ask you again: if you have not been enchanted by this adventure--your life--what would do for you?

And, where are you, with your ears bagged down as if with packets of sand? Listen. We all have much more listening to do. Tear the sand away. And listen. The river is singing. …

For myself, I have walked in these woods for

More than forty years, and I am the only

thing, it seems, that is about to be used up.

Or, to be less extravagant, will, in the

Foreseeable future, be used up.

First, though, I want to step out into some

fresh morning and look around and hear myself

crying out: "The house of money is falling! The house of money is falling! The weeds are rising! The weeds are rising!"

—Mary Oliver

[Swans in Hallstatt, Austria]

How Would You Live Then?

What if a hundred rose-breasted grosbeaks

flew in circles around your head? What if

the mockingbird came into the house with you and

became your advisor? What if

the bees filled your walls with honey and all

you needed to do was ask them and they would fill

the bowl? What if the brook slid downhill just

past your bedroom window so you could listen

to its slow prayers as you fell asleep? What if

the stars began to shout their names, or to run

this way and that way above the clouds? What if

you painted a picture of a tree, and the leaves

began to rustle, and a bird cheerfully sang

from its painted branches? What if you suddenly saw

that the silver of water was brighter than the silver

of money? What if you finally saw

that the sunflowers, turning toward the sun all day

and every day – who knows how, but they do it – were

more precious, more meaningful than gold?

—Mary Oliver

Forgive Me for Wanting to Soothe

 

Sometimes a wound must stay a wound. —James Crews, “Wound”     Sometimes I remember a wound must stay a wound. Why then,  this impulse to bring you a vase of blue  larkspur, white lilies and a blessing instead of sitting with you in the dark and letting what is dark be dark.  When I am brave enough to see beyond my longing to soothe,  all I want is to be with you in the dark.  To steep together in the uncomfortable ache.  To quietly meet you in the wounded place so you know you are not alone. Perhaps I will always send you lilies,  but let me also trust how necessary it is,  the open ear, this tenderness,  this willingness to be with, more gift than any flower. —Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Chapter One

 

I love how books begin; those passages

that lead us by the hand across

the luxurious lawns, that portage us

gently up the gravel drive,

toward the manor house.

The author is still a kind host here,

anxious that we mingle

with the other weekend guests, that we note

how even the banisters are polished for us,

that we feel free to walk out

with the lady of the house and smoke

a cigarette, down the grand alley of elms.

We're not expected to have things down pat

yet, like the family tree, or the route to the old Abbey.

Nothing really happens now,

beyond the delivery of breakfast trays.

It's not scheduled to rain

for two more chapters, and no one

who matters to us has died yet.

--Mark Aiello