Friday, February 2, 2007

Can't resist

I've been working on my never-ending exchange project, so no stitching updates.

BUT, I couldn't resist joining in on the Second Annual Brigid in Cyberspace (Silent) Poetry Reading in celebration of Brigid's day. In celebration of Brigid (or Punxsutawny Phil, if you prefer), post a favorite poem, either someone else's or one of your own.

Well, here is my favorite poem written by Mary Oliver, one of the greatest poets ever, in my mind. This poem is all about occupying your space fully in this world, and for me, as for many of us, this is something new that we practice every day. I am filled with hope when I remind myself of the vast, complex, eternally renewing universe that I am intricately connected to. Happy Imbolc!

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.

And, here is one of my own, not related as much to the day, but just one that I am proud of for it's subtle meaning and competent evocation of emotion. Hope you like it.


Angel lies passive in your arms
A tarnished goddess in shades of verdigris and gray.
Her heart is cold, or glowing for another;
You turn to her to fix her halo, crushed,
Close your eyes and with desperate hands
Touch her distant form.
Her cries are either passion or sorrow,
So you make yourself believe your hands
Restore her to heaven.
Turn your head from knowing she is a fallen star.
Bereft of magic, she longs for her lost god,
The locus of her soul, and you cry because
You cannot take her where she wants to go.
You will give her the world
And all the earthly treasures
You can gather to her altar,
But she sways, yearning, towards the moon
And starry firmament, her blind eyes golden
With desire.
Your averted gaze will not see
That desire is not for you.
To you, her sighs are passion;
You inhale the myth of her love deep
As if it were true nourishment
For your parched soul.

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