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I love the wild parrots!
This is a very controversial statement to make in LA, where the racket of these birds roosting by friends homes is a sore spot. I do not live in proximity to a rookery, and encounter the parrots at the height of golden hour when they head home. Their sound is loud, but not like passing ambulance sirens. It causes me to look up from reading and away from the computer. It is a natural noise, in the manufactured landscape. The parrots are an indicator of this other life that continues in other rhythms, a life that adheres to something other than a syllabus. The parrots cacophony is a delightful alarm clock going off and reminding me to delight in the changing of the light. The wild parrots also remind me of Mary Olivers' Wild Geese: You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things. May you experience the delight of having your place in the family of things announced.
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By Robert Louis Stevenson
All the names I know from nurse: Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse, Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock, And the Lady Hollyhock. Fairy places, fairy things, Fairy woods where the wild bee wings, Tiny trees for tiny dames-- These must all be fairy names! Tiny woods below whose boughs Shady fairies weave a house; Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme, Where the braver fairies climb! Fair are grown-up people's trees, But the fairest woods are these; Where, if I were not so tall, I should live for good and all. By Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner's bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it. BY JOHN DONNE
Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurp'd town to another due, Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain, But am betroth'd unto your enemy; Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. Nothing like the Holy Sonnets of John Donne to get a person ready for Lent! By Billy Collins
All afternoon I have been struggling to communicate in Italian with Roberto and Giuseppe who have begun to resemble the two male characters in my Italian for Beginners, the ones always shopping, eating, or inquiring about the times of trains. Now I can feel my English slipping away, like chlorinated water through my fingers. I have made important pronouncements in this remote limestone valley with its trickle of a river. I stated that it seems hotter today even than it was yesterday and that swimming is very good for you, very beneficial, you might say. I also posed burning questions about the hours of the archaeological museum and the location of the local necropolis. But now I am alone in the evening light which has softened the white cliffs, and I have had a little gin in a glass with ice which has softened my mood or- how would you say in English- has allowed my thoughts to traverse my brain with greater gentleness, shall we say, or, to put it less literally, this drink has extended permission to my mind to feel-what’s the word?- a friendship with the vast sky which is very-give me a minute-very blue but with much great paleness at this special time of day, or as we say in America, now. From Nine Horses (Random House) BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate, A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow. "In the tumultuous privacy of the storm..." Such language! Love it! Do you have a favorite phrase in this poem? Please share it in the comments.
First poem of the New Year & today being the Feast of Epiphany, with content that addresses both occasions: that is what I consider a win all around. I love this poem, perhaps because I heard it sung before I knew it was a poem & now I hear the song while reading it. In light of that I have included a YouTube video & recommend hitting play while reading along with the lyrics/poem. There are many phrases that bear repeating, but I will leave you to it. Feel free to comment below with your favorite phrase. In Memoriam, [Ring out, wild bells] Lord Alfred Tennyson, 1809 - 1892 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. "Hope" is the thing with feathers By Emily Dickinson "Hope" is the thing with feathers-- That perches in the soul-- And sings the tune without the words-- And never stops—at all-- And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard-- And sore must be the storm-- That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm-- I've heard it in the chillest land-- And on the strangest Sea-- Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumb—of Me. |
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