There was a time,
We now say: before this.
Then the long silence, the cliff drop, after this,
As the mind desperately claws back
To where hope ran wild.
~Therese Flanagan
poetry
There was a time,
We now say: before this.
Then the long silence, the cliff drop, after this,
As the mind desperately claws back
To where hope ran wild.
~Therese Flanagan
I have you repeat the colors of leaves
saying: deep autumnal gold, crimson red, plum purple,
filling mouth and ear with remembering.
~ Therese Flanagan
Human Chain, by Seamus Heaney
Stepping Stones: Interviews with Seamus Heaney, by Dennis O'Driscoll
April is poetry month. I read poetry year round and can't imagine a month without it, but I'm happy to celebrate it publicly every April. Some poems wind up becoming talismans -- something you carry and something that carries you. The poem becomes something you breathe; something you are. That is how I feel about Laura Fargas' poem, Kuan Yin, which can be found in her book of poems: An Animal of the Sixth Day.
Thank you, Laura Fargas.
I read a poem by Laura Fargas that I really love; it's called Kuan Yin and can be found here, at post 32:
http://www.librarything.com/topic/81404
or here, the second poem:
http://laanta.blogspot.com/2005/09/antidote-to-politics.html
It's included in her book of poems:
An Animal of the Sixth Day (Walt McDonald First-Book Series) by Laura Fargas
I start out my day with poetry. Wallace Stevens is always on hand. There is a richness there that constantly informs. I return, again and again, to his poem, The Idea of Order at Key West:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172206
I also love The Man with the Blue Guitar. Stevens helped me understand the way an artist sees the visible world and gives it a mixture of voice and silence in witnessing it.
I first encountered Stevens' poetry in an anthology that included three of his poems: The Man with the Blue Guitar, The Emperor of Ice Cream, and Anecdote of the Jar. I didn't know what to make of them, but I was intrigued. Several lines stayed with me, which is the way poetry works with me. So I read more of his poems and I continue to read and reread them and understand them in different ways. Just as rereading a novel at different times of your life brings forth a whole new book, poems keep renewing themselves, or I come to them new. Over the years, in some strange alchemy, the lines feel grafted to my bones. I like to read his poems out loud. The experience is something like listening to music you love with headphones on; by giving it voice the work becomes embodied. It's a different sort of concentration and it allows more of the poem to sink in.