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Posts tagged ‘poetry’

Robert Frost lived here

 

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Chris and I took a small drive today, antiquing, looking for furniture for our new home. We did get a dining room table, but it was hard commit to anything else. We aren’t moved in yet and we have no place put anything…it makes collecting things difficult. The store where we did buy the table is storing it for us “until.”

 

As we drove, we saw a sign that read “Robert Frost Museum and Home,” or something like that. We followed the road just long enough for me to believe that we might have made a mistake, when we came upon Frost’s lovely homestead. There was a small poetry trail, and a welcome center complete with a short movie of the man’s life, as well as his simple home. Frost only lived there 5 years with his family. While he loved the area, he realized it was too cold to grow a garden, so he moved someplace in Vermont that was warmer or sunnier. The home houses a poet every year, some  lucky individual who gets to live and write in Frost’s sweet abode. My guess is that it is only a summer thing…the locale seems hard enough to reach in summer and the wood stove didn’t seem functioning. Nevertheless. three months in Frost’s home would be lovely.

 

A poem by Robert Frost

 

 

 

Happiness Makes Up In Height For What It lacks in Length

 

O stormy, stormy world,
The days you were not swirled
Around with mist and cloud,
Or wrapped as in a shroud,
And the sun’s brilliant ball
Was not in part or all
Obscured from mortal view–
Were days so very few
I can but wonder whence
I get the lasting sense
Of so much warmth and light.
If my mistrust is right
It may be altogether
From one day’s perfect weather,
When starting clear at dawn
The day swept clearly on
To finish clear at eve.
I verily believe
My fair impression may
Be all from that one day
No shadow crossed but ours
As through its blazing flowers
We went from house to wood
For change of solitude.

 

Emerson has it right

20140607-202552-73552433.jpgWe went for a walk today in the Pondicherry Wildlife Refuge. I was incredibly  beautiful despite the mosquitos and having to use an entire bottle of bug spray. I took too many pictures. It was just so beautiful. Afterwards we took Luka home and headed out for lunch in Franconia., which in turn took us to the Lupine Festival. We stopped at a lovely farm and took a stroll through a poetry placarded field. It was the second day in a row of having that feeling that there was no place else that I’d rather be. 20140607-202553-73553525.jpg

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20140607-202552-73552972.jpgThe natural beauty of this state is really over whelming. I am so grateful to be be here right now at this time in my life.  As evening approached, Chris and I took a paddle on the lake. We saw the loons again and a huge osprey which skimmed the lake fishing for dinner. The surface of the lake was glasslike, the moon reflecting off the water.  We left our cameras behind, intentionally choosing to just observe and not capture the moments. I am so blessed to experience all of this with someone I love so much.

Here

a poem from 2008

Yesterday
I raced desperately around the globe
snatching trinkets
like a pirate
only
to still them on my mantle
merely empty relics 
 
Today
I walked with blindfold
on the arm of a man I just met
and discovered
All
I had longed for
was below my still feet
 
 

the center of my head

in the center of my head
is a deep teal velvet chair
with a bright embroidered pillow
hand stitched by a grandmother spider
and to the left
a small round topped table
at just the right height
for a cup of tea to rest easily
within reach
sits on the floor
My beautiful Luka
curls at my feet on a braided wool rug
and the best of Patti Griffin plays
softly in the background
 
from the center of my head
as I sit
I can look out the window to my world
from here I am as
I was birthed to be
strong and capable
kind and even
and full of that
unleashed 
and abundant 
love
and everything is
easy and
right
and 
good

time

memories stick together like wet tissue paper
housed together on shelves
so close that space is measured in whispers
my daughter is my my 5th grade friend
my father returns time and again from every war since 1972
loneliness has weight and presence
the only constant
is the waiting

sisters

the candor of the women always surprises me
living on the streets affords little privacy
and it plays out in subtle
and not so subtle ways

is it easier to lay the details of your life wide open
when you have no place to hold your secrets?
or are your secrets hidden so deeply inside
that they are lost even unto you?

what is forgotten and what is told,
what is held back and what is shared,
is the last measure of control
the final dignity

we are the same,
in the beginning
and in the end
and most certainly in between

what divides us
is nothing but our fear

for the women of Rahab’s Sisters and all the women who live in the margins.

Poems from long ago

In the process of cleaning out my home for the big move, I have come across old journals. Ugh! In them I have found a few pearls, “special only to me” writings that I want to save. I will include them over the few weeks in an effort to preserve some memories..

29 August 1993
On the way to the Park

“That dog looks like Beckett, mommy.”
“I know”
“but Beckett has more spots,” she says pointing
to her body, “all over his body.”
“yes honey, and he had more hair too”
“I miss Beckett mommy”
she lays on the sidewalk and puts her head down
“I miss Kimmy too”
“I miss Kimmy too Dev, I’ll tell her you miss her next time I write”
“I’m sad mommy
I want my name to be Kimmy.”

Unshakeable Peace

i have been to it
that place without
that holds everything evenly
perfectly balanced
on no one side

i have felt
freedom
complete and clear
the best of naivete and wisdom
at once

i know that the path
to peace is inward
it is traveling to a place
alone
on a road thousands have taken
before you

it is a place
one does not arrive at
one is revealed unto it
without effort
without any thing at all

blue sky

for the first time in too long
I see the blue
filling space where only grey
has been
i have been painting blue for months
my memory and heart
urging oil from tiny tubes
into impossible hues
i have past waiting
my expectation left long ago
so this blue
this day
is a sweet presence
shaded by nothing

Miksang

Along our walk, a moment.