Poem of the Day

Here's the Poem of the Day from Writer's Almanac, my favorite literary website. Since I've been going to school, my yard has fallen into disrepair, but I wish I could get out there and work in the dirt, just a little bit! I love spring and the new flowers that are appearing. My purple tulips are just about to pop! This will be me, out there in the yard again, in summer of '11!

His Wife
by Andrew Hudgins

My wife is not afraid of dirt.
She spends each morning gardening,
stooped over, watering, pulling weeds,
removing insects from her plants
and pinching them until they burst.
She won't grow marigolds or hollyhocks,
just onions, eggplants, peppers, peas –
things we can eat. And while she sweats
I'm working on my poetry and flute.
Then growing tired of all that art,
I've strolled out to the garden plot
and seen her pull a tomato from the vine
and bite into the unwashed fruit
like a soft, hot apple in her hand.
The juice streams down her dirty chin
and tiny seeds stick to her lips.
Her eye is clear, her body full of light,
and when, at night, I hold her close,
she smells of mint and lemon balm.

Poety

Today my brother sent me this beautiful poem:

Failing and Flying

by Jack Gilbert

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

*******************************************

Wasn't that beautiful? I hope I can continue the way I have always tried to live: to give everything my all, even though it is hard, and even though I may not win, or succeed. I hope I can always suck the marrow out of life, and if I fail, I'll just be coming to the end of my triumph, like Icarus.

Now, the Bach Toccata in G Minor (No. 5!). Can you believe I have finally made a decision? Hooray!

A Beautiful Poem

Here's something from Mary Oliver:

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
Keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

—from "Messenger" in Thirst (2006)