O, sweet spontaneous earth
Apr. 13th, 2006 11:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pjthompsonI think my body is reacting even more badly this week to the time change than it did last week. It's as if my body is saying, "Wait. You're serious? We're really going to be getting up this early from now on? Screw that!" Only my body said something much stronger than "screw."
I'm having trouble putting coherent thoughts together all the way around. But I did manage to polish up the synopsis and inch closer to the frickin' conclusion of the frickin' Epic Which Shall Not Be Named.
And then there's this: more poetry!
I can't help it. Not when my poetry books are being reborn again from the boxes they've been packed in for six months.
Spring, Again
by Reed Whittemore
At the end of that lengthy winter, after the snow
Had vanished into the ground, leaving on top
The refuse of a dead season--leaves and stalks
And all possible forms of pastness, withered and brown--
It was hard to be sure
That the land would heave again, and breathe, and proceed
With the vast labor of spring. At least, for an author,
The chance that the annual miracle might not occur
Was worth some attention, since there was always
Some kind of market somewhere for Fantasy Fiction.
He could describe the annual chores--the turning of earth,
The raking, clearing, seeding, planting--based
On the normal and healthy assumption that this year, like last,
Something would come of it all, something green, something edible,
And life with corn and potatoes would go on.
And then he could switch to the faces of men and describe
All the mounting phases of loss,
As the spring that was not to be spring advanced, and the summer
That never would come
Hovered where bluejays and larks would have been, if only
A valve or a switch or a faucet no one could fix
Had not, after all these years, somehow got clogged.
So ran an author's thoughts in that season of brown,
Thoughts of a new Jeremiah looking for something
Salable even as shoots of green began groping
Their way in the dark to the surface of things,
And robins appeared on schedule, and buds swelled.
And When the Green Man Comes
by John Haines
The man is clothed
in birchbark,
small birds cling to his limbs
and one builds
a nest in his ear.
The clamor of bedlam
infests his hair, a wind
blowing in his head
shakes down
a thought that turns
to moss and lichen
at his feet.
His eyes are blind
with April,
his breath distilled
of butterflies
and bees, and in his beard
the maggot sings.
He comes again
with litter of chips
and empty cans,
his shoes full of mud and dung;
an army of shedding dogs
attends him,
the valley shudders where
he stands,
redolent of roses,
exalted in
the streaming rain.
A Dark Thing Inside the Day
by Linda Gregg
So many want to be lifted by song and dancing,
and this morning it is easy to understand.
I write in the sound of chirping birds hidden
in the almond trees, the almonds still green
and thriving in the foliage. Up the street,
a man is hammering to make a new house as doves
continue their cooing forever. Bees humming
and high above that a brilliant clear sky.
The roses are blooming and I smell the sweetness.
Everything desirable is here already in abundance.
And the sea. The dark thing is hardly visible
in the leaves, under the sheen. We sleep easily.
So I bring no sad stories to warn the heart.
All the flowers are adult this year. The good
world gives and the white doves praise all of it.
by e. e. cummings
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
☐☐fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
☐beauty☐☐☐how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
☐☐(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
☐☐thou answerest
them only with
☐☐☐☐☐☐☐spring)
I'm having trouble putting coherent thoughts together all the way around. But I did manage to polish up the synopsis and inch closer to the frickin' conclusion of the frickin' Epic Which Shall Not Be Named.
And then there's this: more poetry!
I can't help it. Not when my poetry books are being reborn again from the boxes they've been packed in for six months.
Spring, Again
by Reed Whittemore
"If they do these things in the green tree,
what shall be done in the dry? "
--Luke xxiii
At the end of that lengthy winter, after the snow
Had vanished into the ground, leaving on top
The refuse of a dead season--leaves and stalks
And all possible forms of pastness, withered and brown--
It was hard to be sure
That the land would heave again, and breathe, and proceed
With the vast labor of spring. At least, for an author,
The chance that the annual miracle might not occur
Was worth some attention, since there was always
Some kind of market somewhere for Fantasy Fiction.
He could describe the annual chores--the turning of earth,
The raking, clearing, seeding, planting--based
On the normal and healthy assumption that this year, like last,
Something would come of it all, something green, something edible,
And life with corn and potatoes would go on.
And then he could switch to the faces of men and describe
All the mounting phases of loss,
As the spring that was not to be spring advanced, and the summer
That never would come
Hovered where bluejays and larks would have been, if only
A valve or a switch or a faucet no one could fix
Had not, after all these years, somehow got clogged.
So ran an author's thoughts in that season of brown,
Thoughts of a new Jeremiah looking for something
Salable even as shoots of green began groping
Their way in the dark to the surface of things,
And robins appeared on schedule, and buds swelled.
And When the Green Man Comes
by John Haines
The man is clothed
in birchbark,
small birds cling to his limbs
and one builds
a nest in his ear.
The clamor of bedlam
infests his hair, a wind
blowing in his head
shakes down
a thought that turns
to moss and lichen
at his feet.
His eyes are blind
with April,
his breath distilled
of butterflies
and bees, and in his beard
the maggot sings.
He comes again
with litter of chips
and empty cans,
his shoes full of mud and dung;
an army of shedding dogs
attends him,
the valley shudders where
he stands,
redolent of roses,
exalted in
the streaming rain.
A Dark Thing Inside the Day
by Linda Gregg
So many want to be lifted by song and dancing,
and this morning it is easy to understand.
I write in the sound of chirping birds hidden
in the almond trees, the almonds still green
and thriving in the foliage. Up the street,
a man is hammering to make a new house as doves
continue their cooing forever. Bees humming
and high above that a brilliant clear sky.
The roses are blooming and I smell the sweetness.
Everything desirable is here already in abundance.
And the sea. The dark thing is hardly visible
in the leaves, under the sheen. We sleep easily.
So I bring no sad stories to warn the heart.
All the flowers are adult this year. The good
world gives and the white doves praise all of it.
by e. e. cummings
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
☐☐fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
☐beauty☐☐☐how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
☐☐(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
☐☐thou answerest
them only with
☐☐☐☐☐☐☐spring)
no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 01:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 02:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 02:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 02:18 pm (UTC)At least, I *think* that's what's happening this week. :-/