How it is fickle, leaving one alone to wander
the halls of the skull with the fluorescents
softly flickering. It rests on the head
like a bird nest, woven of twigs and tinsel
and awkward as soon as one stops to look.
That pile of fallen leaves drifting from
the brain to the fingertip burned on the stove,
to the grooves in that man’s voice
as he coos to his dog, blowing into the leaves
of books with moonlit opossums
and Chevrolets easing down the roads
of one’s bones.
–Joanie Mackowski, Consciousness
This rose-tree is not made to bear
The violet blue, nor lily fair,
Nor the sweet mignionet:
And if this tree were discontent,
Or wished to change its natural bent,
It all in vain would fret.
—Mary Lamb, Envy
I know flowers to be funeral companions
they make poisons and venoms
and eat abandoned stone walls
I know flowers shine stronger
than the sun
their eclipse means the end of
but I love flowers for their treachery
their fragile bodies
grace my imagination’s avenues
without their presence
my mind would be an unmarked
—Etal Adnan, from The Spring Flowers Own
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
—e. e. cummings [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]
An open door says, “Come in.”
A shut door says, “Who are you?”
Shadows and ghosts go through shut doors.
–Carl Sandburg, Doors
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
–Li-Young Lee, From Blossoms
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
–Emily Dickinson, “Hope” is the thing with feathers –
I love these posts.
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always love e. e. cummings. especially *that* poem.
your photos are spectacular. as always.
I was thinking that I could do an entire month of e.e. cummings poems, but I’m trying to broaden my poetry knowledge. He is wonderful :).
Agreed. These posts are fantastic. I am an e.e. cummings fan as well. So much so, that in my teen years I refused to spell my name with capital letters.
I am curious… do you have a collection of poetry books at home, or have you borrowed some from the public library? Regardless, you’ve made some fantastic choices!
That’s awesome, g.e.! I do have some books at home, but I’ve been using the National Poetry Foundation site so that what I include can be linked, AND so that I’m exposing myself to new-to-me writers.
Oh, that’s a great idea! Much more economical than buying a bunch of books too (though there are those I simply some I feel the need to purchase).
Typed that too fast… those I simply feel the need to purchase.
Gotta say I like the bike/poetry combo…
Thanks, Tim. It’s taking more time than I thought, but I really like this self-imposed homework assignment.
by the way, I started blogging again
“Old and In The Way”