‘Let my words be bright with animals’ – Susan Richardson

 

‘Let my words be bright with animals’ – Susan Richardson

 

Let my verbs be studded with Glow Worms.

Let Painted Ladies flit from each vowel I sound.

Let my prose be overwritten with Purple Frogs.

Let Baboons moon at my proper nouns.

Let Flamingoes paddle in the shallows of my gossip.

Let Clownfish swim in memories’ depths.

Let Satin Bower Birds use my blue language to decorate their nests.

Let Bonobos get personal with my pronouns.

Let Impalas graze the great plain of my tongue.

Whenever I sing, from the roof of my mouth let Orange Fruit Bats hang.

And at night, as darkness peaks, let a Two-toed Sloth creep upside-down through my mumbling canopy of sleep.

 

Let Wildebeest migrate with my yelling.

Let my softer speech be beached with Natterjack Toads.

Let Pygmy Hippos tinge my whispers.

Let my winter breath make Baiji-wraithes and Dodo-Wraithes

– Susan Richardson

 

Source: ‘Let my words be bright with animals’ – Plumwood Mountain

 

 

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It will have its own – Mary Webb

The British novelist and poet Mary Webb, around 1920. Credit Dorothy Hicklin
The British novelist and poet Mary Webb, around 1920. Credit Dorothy Hicklin

For the love of nature is a passion for those in whom it once lodges. It can never be quenched. It cannot change. It is a furious, burning, physical greed, as well as a state of mystical exaltation. It will have its own.
Mary Webb from The House in Dormer Forest (circa 1921)

 

Webb 6
The young Mary Webb

The Mary Webb Society website 

The Ancient Gods

Certainly there were splashings in the water, Certainly there were shadows on the hill, Dark with the leaves of purple-spotted orchis; But now all’s still.

It may be that the catkin-covered sallow,
With her illusive, glimmering surprise,
Pale golden-tinted as a tall young goddess,
Deceived my eyes;

And the white birches wading in the margin,
Each one a naked and a radiant god,
Dazzled me; and the foam was flung by currents
Where no feet trod.

Only I know I saw them–stately, comely,
Within the leafy shadows of the stream;
They woke amid the shallow, singing water
A fading gleam.

They left no trail for any beast to follow,
No track upon the moss for man to trace;
In a long, silent file up-stream they vanished
With measured pace.

The hollow water curved about their ankles
Like amber; splashes glistened on their thighs;
Sun barred their lifted heads and their far-seeing
Yet sightless eyes.

Some were like women, with deep hair of willows,
Bare breasts and gracious arms and long, smooth hips,
And the red roses of desire half frozen
Upon their lips:

But most were massive-browed and massive-shouldered
And taller than the common height of men.
They went as those that have not home nor kindred,
Nor come again.

Still, where the birches fingered their reflection,
The thrushes chanted to the evening sky;
Still the grey wagtails raced across the shingle
As they went by.

Beyond the furthest of the saffron shallows
I lost them in the larches’ rainy green,
And only saw the stretches of marsh-mallows
Where they had been.

You say the sallow and the birch deceived me:
But I know well that I beheld to-day
The ancient gods, unheralded, majestic,
Upon their way.

Mary Webb © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

Every step we take on earth brings us to a new world – Federico Garcia Lorca

 

After the Rain, 1930_s, Pál Kaczur

After the Rain, 1930’s, Pál Kaczur

Every step we take on earth
brings us to a new world.

FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA

I Found You Among Noble Things

Readers

Alba

 (‘Infinite things desired, lofty visions’)

I found you among noble things,

I knew you among true spaces,

you come bringing the world’s depths,

hold in your hands the mind’s future.

You were not meant for dull being,

and I long to sweep away,

all this time, and all this silence,

find you again among noble things.

A. S. Kline © 2006 All Rights Reserved

 

The Night Knows Nothing

Giacomo Balla - Poste

The night knows nothing of the chants of night.
It is what it is as I am what I am:
And in perceiving this I best perceive myself

And you. Only we two may interchange
Each in the other what each has to give.
Only we two are one, not you and night,

Nor night and I, but you and I, alone,
So much alone, so deeply by ourselves,
So far beyond the casual solitudes,

That night is only the background of our selves,
Supremely true each to its separate self,
In the pale light that each upon the other throws.

Wallace Stevens, Re-Statement of Romance, 1935

image: Giacomo Balla – Poste

 

Wordsworth’s “She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways.”

Izis Bidermana1

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
          Beside the springs of Dove;
A Maid whom there were none to praise,
          And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
          Half-hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
          Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
          When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
          The difference to me

William Wordsworth

(photo Izis Bidermanas)

http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2013/09/10/william-wordsworths-she-dwelt-among-the-untrodden-ways/

The hands that work on us

What is required of us is that we love the difficult and learn to deal with it. In the difficult are the friendly forces, the hands that work on us. Right in the difficult we must have our joys, our happiness, our dreams: there against the depth of this background, they stand out, there for the first time we see how beautiful they are.

—Rainer Maria Rilke from Letters, Vol. I: 1892-1910

rilke

 

A Subtle Difference

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a man, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure…
That you really are strong
And you really do have worth…
And you learn and learn…
With every good-bye you learn…

— You Learn 
— by Jorge Luis Borges

Ecstasy of Annihilation

The Haunted Shoreline

golden_void

Poetry leads to the same place as all forms of eroticism — to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death, and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea. Georges Bataille, Death and Sensuality

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