Category Archives: poetry

The winds are soft and restless.

nature, poetry,

SIX QUATRAINS

AUTUMN
gold of amber
red of ember
brown of umber
all September

MCCOY CREEK
Over the bright shallows
now no flights of swallows.
Leaves of the sheltering willow
dangle thin and yellow.

OCTOBER
At four in the morning the west wind
moved in the leaves of the beech tree
with a long rush and patter of water,
first wave of the dark tide coming in.

SOLSTICE
On the longest night of all the year
in the forests up the hill,
the little owl spoke soft and clear
to bid the night be longer still.

THE WINDS OF MAY
are soft and restless
in their leafy garments
that rustle and sway
making every moment movement.

HAIL
The dogwood cowered under the thunder
and the lilacs burned like light itself
against the storm-black sky until the hail
whitened the grass with petals.

-Ursula K. Le Guin

Pippin Photo

The smaller cousin of the sun.

poetry, , , , ,

THIS MORNING I PRAY FOR MY ENEMIES

And whom do I call my enemy?
An enemy must be worthy of engagement.
I turn in the direction of the sun and keep walking.
It’s the heart that asks the question, not my furious mind.
The heart is the smaller cousin of the sun.
It sees and knows everything.
It hears the gnashing even as it hears the blessing.
The door to the mind should only open from the heart.
An enemy who gets in, risks the danger of becoming a friend.

-Joy Harjo

The Sun, by Edvard Munch

O come and tell me of the when.

poetry,

KNOW’ST THOU THE WAY?

O littel bird! know’st thou the way
Which is unknown to me?
How swift thou flewest at break of day,
With heart all full of glee!

Around thy neck my message tied,
Full of my longing mind;
Thy speed the sailor has outvied,
Thou waitest for no wind.

No sweet reply can I get now;
No word to ease my pain;
I know not when, I know not how,
Or if we meet again.

O might that be, what gladness then!
I’d sing, sweet bird, like thee;
O come and tell me of the when
That happy time shall be.

-Theodor Kjerulf (1825 – 1888) Norway

Mikhail Olennikov, Rest Under the Bird Cherry

Fierce hour and sweet.

Holy Week, poetry, ,

A famous poem for Palm Sunday that I don’t think I have ever posted before:

THE DONKEY

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born;

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

-G.K. Chesterton