Trusting Grateful Inspired Friday – beauty as compensation edition

Trusting – at least twice this week I have been forcibly struck by my own good fortune. Earlier this week, I was standing on my front porch listening to a hawk cry as it circle high above on thermals. The day was brilliantly sunny and the porch warm. The mountains across the water glowed, architectures of blue and white fragmented planes. And all I could think of was beauty beauty all around me and I’m alive to see it. Then, last night I awoke and noticed this golden slice of moon traveling over the water. I thought of all the pain in this world and wondered is this beauty our compensation?

Grateful – oh yes, the snow sinks in on itself and the sun has been shining and all of my little seedlings are reaching, reaching. And then today, I am walking with my eyes opened by the possibility that yes, this is spring, yes, and I find chives pushing themselves up towards the world. I tell you, those chives have made me want to shout all day.

Inspired – What a way to open a poetry collection….  this from Camille Dungy’s Smith Blue.

After Opening the New York Times I Wonder
How to Write a Poem about Love

To love like God can love, sometimes.
Before the kettle boils to a whistle, quiet. Quiet
that is lost on me, waiting as I am
for an alarm. The sort of things I notice:
the bay over redbud blossoms, mountains
over magnolia blooms. There is always something
starting somewhere, and I have lost ambition
to look into the details. Shame fits comfortably
as my best skirt, and what can I do
but walk around in that habit? Turn the page.
Turn another page. This was meant to be
about love. Now there is nothing left but this.

An axe for the frozen sea within us…

Kafka wrote, “A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”

How many times have I been so broken open by what I’ve read that for the first time I glimpse the true root of a pain or a beauty in my life? Today, I am reading Houses Are Fields by Taije Silverman. I’ve read fewer than twenty pages and already I’ve been shaken by the sadness, compassion and beauty contained in this work.

As I approach my own poetry, I imagine taking successively finer grits of sandpaper to it – until what is left is the polished edge of an axe, at once tool and artwork. A keen edge for the frozen sea within myself, and perhaps some day, for another who yearns for open blue water.

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