a blog of found things: words, art, photography, disappointment & hope
If I have something important to say
I hope I live here long enough
To say it gracefully. The wind moves
Everything. Nothing is exempt.
In the space between seasons
Which is one night in a life,
The corn beats inside its stalks, waiting for bloom.
The wheat flowers, falls easily.
The clouds become enormous & have names.
– from Lucie Brock-Broido, Magnum Mysterium
as if I had never walked
except with you, my heart,
as if I could not walk
except with you,
as if I could not sing
except when you sing.
– from Pablo Neruda, Epithalamium
In this poem you are by yourself.
– Catherine Wagner, from Versus
i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
– E.E. Cummings
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass
– Ezra Pound
All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.
What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it
that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me
something other than this,
something not so insistent –
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.
Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out
of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.
– Robert Creeley
memoryhouse 