Then came the shouts and whistles, the roundup into jars, a clamber of legs. It is dark in here, but the chapters open their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound, words adjusting themselves to their meaning. An echo, continuous from the title onward, hums behind me.
Rita Dove is a former U. Poems by William Stafford B. And oh I hope we can still arrange for the wind to blow, and occasionally some kind of shock to occur, like rain, and stray adventures no one cares about -- harmless love, immoderate guffaws on corners, families crawling around the front room growling, being bears in the piano cave.
A candleflame in Tibet leans when I move. I scramble by luck into a little pocket out of the wind and begin to beat on the stones with my scratched numb hands, rocking back and forth in silent laughter there in the dark-- "Made it again!
You know that way the sky has of dangling her last bright wisps? Now there were others: But the rumor of it will haunt all that follows in my life. I remember they said it would be hard. Some Things the World Gave 1 Times in the morning early when it rained and the long gray buildings came forward from darkness offering their windows for light.
Colors balance our fears, and existence begins to clog unless our thoughts can occur unwatched and let a fountain of essential silliness out through our dreams. When this book ends I will pull it inside-out like a sock and throw it back in the library. Toward the Space Age We must begin to catch hold of everything around us, for nobody knows what we may need.
Which made them laugh and clap their hands. One place I loosen a rock and listen a long time till it hits, faint in the gulf, but the rush of the torrent almost drowns it out, and the wind -- I almost forgot the wind: They are back there, discontent, waiting to be driven forth.
We were a musical lantern; children slept to our rasping sighs.
From in here, the world looms, a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences carved out when an author traveled and a reader kept the way open. I pound on the earth, riding the earth past the stars: At least then we knew what pleased them, and where the brink was.
And if now and then one of us shook free and sang as he climbed to the brim, he would always fall again. Long passages open at successive pages. We have to carry along the air, even; and the weight we once thought a burden turns out to form the pulse of our life and the compass for our brain.Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down- who is.
until the day gave out. You know that way the sky has of dangling her last bright wisps? That’s when the ache would bloom inside until I couldn’t wait; I knelt down to scrape myself clean and didn’t care who heard. Then came the shouts and whistles, the roundup into jars, a clamber of legs.
Now there were others: tumbled, clouded. for Jim.
Nine years ago this week, I and my groom, Jim, listened as our dear friend Jennifer Soule read Mary Oliver’s poem “The Summer Day.” We’d selected the poem for our wedding because the ending lines had spoken to us throughout our courtship: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?”.
The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver - Poem of Poetry A Poem a Day for American High Schools, Hosted by Billy Collins, U.S. Poet Laureate, (Poetry and Literature, Library of Congress). Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean--the one who has flung herself out of the grass.
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean--the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.Download