“She told them that the only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if they could not see it, they would not have it.
Monday, December 19, 2016
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
bell hooks
when angels speak of love
they tell us
all is union and reunion
dying reborn again
there is no separation
no end to paradise
we are always present
the ecstatic moving us
along each current
each wilderness of spirit
a dedicated path
when angels speak of love
bell hooks
they tell us
all is union and reunion
dying reborn again
there is no separation
no end to paradise
we are always present
the ecstatic moving us
along each current
each wilderness of spirit
a dedicated path
when angels speak of love
bell hooks
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
P.K Page
Planet Earth
In 2000, Page was treated to a special honour when the United Nations chose her poem Planet Earth, inspired by four lines from a longer poem by Chilean writer Pablo Neruda, for its Dialogue Among Civilizations Through Poetry reading series.
The poem — which was the one she professed wanting to be remembered for — was read at locations around the globe considered "international ground," including the United Nations, Mount Everest and Antarctica.
In 2000, Page was treated to a special honour when the United Nations chose her poem Planet Earth, inspired by four lines from a longer poem by Chilean writer Pablo Neruda, for its Dialogue Among Civilizations Through Poetry reading series.
The poem — which was the one she professed wanting to be remembered for — was read at locations around the globe considered "international ground," including the United Nations, Mount Everest and Antarctica.
Monday, April 04, 2011
It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet,
has to be ironed, the sea in its whiteness;
and the hands keep on moving,
smoothing the holy surfaces.
----- In Praise of Ironing by Pablo Neruda
It has to be loved the way a laundress loves her linens,
the way she moves her hands caressing the fine muslins
knowing their warp and woof,
like a lover coaxing, or a mother praising.
It has to be loved as if it were embroidered
with flowers and birds and two joined hearts upon it.
It has to be stretched and stroked.
It has to be celebrated.
O this great beloved world and all the creatures in it.
It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet.
The trees must be washed, and the grasses and mosses.
They have to be polished as if made of green brass.
The rivers and little streams with their hidden cresses
and pale-coloured pebbles
and their fool's gold
must be washed and starched or shined into brightness,
the sheets of lake water
smoothed with the hand
and the foam of the oceans pressed into neatness.
It has to be ironed, the sea in its whiteness.
and pleated and goffered, the flower-blue sea
the protean, wine-dark, grey, green, sea
with its metres of satin and bolts of brocade.
And sky - such an 0! overhead - night and day
must be burnished and rubbed
by hands that are loving
so the blue blazons forth
and the stars keep on shining
within and above
and the hands keep on moving.
It has to be made bright, the skin of this planet
till it shines in the sun like gold leaf.
Archangels then will attend to its metals
and polish the rods of its rain.
Seraphim will stop singing hosannas
to shower it with blessings and blisses and praises
and, newly in love,
we must draw it and paint it
our pencils and brushes and loving caresses
smoothing the holy surfaces.
© 1994 P.K. Page 1916-2010
has to be ironed, the sea in its whiteness;
and the hands keep on moving,
smoothing the holy surfaces.
----- In Praise of Ironing by Pablo Neruda
It has to be loved the way a laundress loves her linens,
the way she moves her hands caressing the fine muslins
knowing their warp and woof,
like a lover coaxing, or a mother praising.
It has to be loved as if it were embroidered
with flowers and birds and two joined hearts upon it.
It has to be stretched and stroked.
It has to be celebrated.
O this great beloved world and all the creatures in it.
It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet.
The trees must be washed, and the grasses and mosses.
They have to be polished as if made of green brass.
The rivers and little streams with their hidden cresses
and pale-coloured pebbles
and their fool's gold
must be washed and starched or shined into brightness,
the sheets of lake water
smoothed with the hand
and the foam of the oceans pressed into neatness.
It has to be ironed, the sea in its whiteness.
and pleated and goffered, the flower-blue sea
the protean, wine-dark, grey, green, sea
with its metres of satin and bolts of brocade.
And sky - such an 0! overhead - night and day
must be burnished and rubbed
by hands that are loving
so the blue blazons forth
and the stars keep on shining
within and above
and the hands keep on moving.
It has to be made bright, the skin of this planet
till it shines in the sun like gold leaf.
Archangels then will attend to its metals
and polish the rods of its rain.
Seraphim will stop singing hosannas
to shower it with blessings and blisses and praises
and, newly in love,
we must draw it and paint it
our pencils and brushes and loving caresses
smoothing the holy surfaces.
© 1994 P.K. Page 1916-2010
Sunday, April 03, 2011
International Poetry Month
"Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. "
— Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. "
— Pablo Neruda
Friday, April 01, 2011
International Poetry Month
This Heavy Craft
P.K. Page
November 23, 1916 – January 14, 2010
The wax has melted
but the dream of flight
persists.
I, Icarus, though grounded
in my flesh
have one bright section in me
where a bird
night after starry night
while I'm asleep
unfolds its phantom wings
and practices.
© P.K. Page
P.K. Page
November 23, 1916 – January 14, 2010
The wax has melted
but the dream of flight
persists.
I, Icarus, though grounded
in my flesh
have one bright section in me
where a bird
night after starry night
while I'm asleep
unfolds its phantom wings
and practices.
© P.K. Page
International Poetry Month
On Becoming a Tiger
by Lorna Goodison
The day that they stole her tiger’s-eye ring
was the day that she became a tiger.
She was inspired by advice received from Rilke
who recommended that, if the business of drinking
should become too bitter,
that one should change oneself into wine.
The tiger was actually always asleep
inside her, she had seen it
stretched out, drowsing and inert
when she lay upon her side and stared
for seven consecutive days into a tall mirror
that she turned on its side.
Her focus had penetrated all exterior
till at last she could see within her
a red flowing landscape of memory and poems,
a heart within her heart
and lying there big, bright, and golden
was the tiger, wildly darkly striped.
At night she dreams that her mother
undresses her and discovers that, under
her outerwear, her bare limbs are marked
with the broad and urgent striations
of the huge and fierce cat of Asia
with the stunning golden quartz eyes.
She has taken to wearing long dresses
to cover the rounded tail coiling behind her.
She has filled her vases with tiger lilies
and replaced her domestic cat
with a smaller relative of hers, the ocelot.
At four in the morning she practices stalking
up and down the long expanse of the hall.
What are the ingredients in tiger’s milk?
Do tigers ever mate for life?
Can she rewrite the story of Little Black Sambo?
Can a non-tiger take a tiger for wife?
To these and other questions,
she is seeking urgent answers
now that she is living an openly
tigerly life.
From Goodison’s Selected Poems published by University of Michigan Press (Ann Arbor).
by Lorna Goodison
The day that they stole her tiger’s-eye ring
was the day that she became a tiger.
She was inspired by advice received from Rilke
who recommended that, if the business of drinking
should become too bitter,
that one should change oneself into wine.
The tiger was actually always asleep
inside her, she had seen it
stretched out, drowsing and inert
when she lay upon her side and stared
for seven consecutive days into a tall mirror
that she turned on its side.
Her focus had penetrated all exterior
till at last she could see within her
a red flowing landscape of memory and poems,
a heart within her heart
and lying there big, bright, and golden
was the tiger, wildly darkly striped.
At night she dreams that her mother
undresses her and discovers that, under
her outerwear, her bare limbs are marked
with the broad and urgent striations
of the huge and fierce cat of Asia
with the stunning golden quartz eyes.
She has taken to wearing long dresses
to cover the rounded tail coiling behind her.
She has filled her vases with tiger lilies
and replaced her domestic cat
with a smaller relative of hers, the ocelot.
At four in the morning she practices stalking
up and down the long expanse of the hall.
What are the ingredients in tiger’s milk?
Do tigers ever mate for life?
Can she rewrite the story of Little Black Sambo?
Can a non-tiger take a tiger for wife?
To these and other questions,
she is seeking urgent answers
now that she is living an openly
tigerly life.
From Goodison’s Selected Poems published by University of Michigan Press (Ann Arbor).
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