Perhaps where it begins and ends should be as a meal
Perhaps the world is simply a meal punctuated by other events
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
Perhaps Poetry is as much the soul’s nourishment as Experience
With weepinge we comen,
With weepinge we passen;
With drede we dwellen,
With drede we wenden.
The letter which you read comes from stolen Briseis,
Written with difficulty in Greek by her barbarian hand.
Whatever blots you see, her tears have made–
But tears, nevertheless, have the strength of a voice.
via Ovid’s Heroides.
Then in my bosom my heart wildly flutters,
And, when on thee I gaze never so little,
Bereft am I of all power of utterance,
My tongue is useless.
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
— William Butler Yeats
The white stones were mountains, then they went traveling.
The pink stones also were part of a mountain before
the glacier’s tongue gathered them up.
Now they lie resting under the waves.
The green stones are lovelier than the blue stones, I thought for a little while,
then I changed my mind.
Stones born of the sediments tell what ooze floated down the outwash once.
Stones born of the fire have red stars inside their bodies, and seams of white quartz.
Also I admire the heft, and the circularities
as they lie without wrist or ankles just under the water.
Also I imagine how they lie quietly all night
under the moon and whatever passes overhead–say, the floating lily of the night-heron.
It is apparent also how they lie relaxed under the sun’s golden ladders.
Each one is a slow-wheeler.
Each one is a tiny church, locked up tight.
Each one is perfect–but none of them is ready quite yet
to come to the garden, to raise corn
or the bulb of the iris.
If I lived inland I would want to take one or two home with me
just to look at in that long life of dust and grass,
but I hope I wouldn’t.
I hope I wouldn’t take even one like a see from the sunflower’s face,
like and ant’s white egg from the warm nursery under the hill.
I hope I would leave them, in the perfect balance of things,
in the clear body of the sea.
— Mary Oliver
But first something new
Landscape With The Fall of Icarus
According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring
a farmer was ploughing
the whole pageantry
of the year was
the edge of the sea
sweating in the sun
the wings’ wax
off the coast
a splash quite unnoticed