In a moment of sad synchronicity, only a few hours after I posted this I found out that Mary Oliver is seriously ill. Writers and poets are sharing their stories about how her work has influenced them, and sending their blessings and prayers. I know many Druids and Pagans are also familiar with her work and have been touched by her vision and love of nature. Please take a few moments today to express your love and gratitude for an amazing woman, and consider sharing your story with her by sending her an open letter.

In honor of our first Valentine’s Day as husband and wife, I wanted to share the poem that Jeff and I had read at our wedding, “The Ponds,” by Mary Oliver.

Read the poem.

I expect an eclipse of moon
to be a kind of dilation,
corona blaze of blue iris
flaring out from the pupil-
depths of midnight sky
cast, in its center, suddenly
to shadow by coy sunlight.
I expect a god, his gaze
past the austerity of bare trees,
sharp eyelashes against the pale
cheek of hill, and the thrill…

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She sleeps with fists
clenched and wakes with bruises
in her palms.
She is reversible.
She folds colored paper along creases
that could break
open the skyline,
then quietly she unfolds it again.
The moon rises.

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I’ve lived so long among ghosts, / the puffed up shells, / watery husks / shimmering transparent skins / that shiver in the wind. / Like so much sea foam, / they shrink away / from the outstretched hand, / fall back into their emptiness.

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The flattery bears
down on us, leveled like a weapon
in the shaking hands of frightened and starving
corporate titans groveling like great beasts before us, desperate
and drooling, to convince us that their teeth are brittle and useless and anyway not
smiling makes them cool, and meanwhile, we scrape along the earth as things keep getting worse…

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Reader libramoon shares a lovely poem in the Meadowsweet Commons as part of the Share Your Love Story contest:

…No one at home has time to do
more than pretend we’re all just fine.
How was I to learn more than my lines?
That promises have consequence?
That I am more than dreams
that don’t come true?
A quiet stone cottage
outlined by life-bearing
pine, firs, maple, birch
nature’s hues and cycles
my heart relaxes.
Meet me here.

Read more…

When I was a sophomore in high school, I applied for a really exclusive summer school for aspiring student artists. I had been fancying myself a writer since first grade, and more specifically a poet since fourth or fifth. I was anxious but confident. I made it past the first round of interviews…. but I didn’t get in.

Today I stumbled across two pieces of internet flotsam that reminded me of that teenage, poetry-ridden self of mine. The second was an article by Jim Moore, who recently saw his seventh book of poetry into print. Moore writes:

“People sometimes ask, especially parents of aspiring writers, ‘What does it take to become a poet?’ From my own experience I would say four things matter most. Everything else takes care of itself. …”

Read more…

Prayer to the Three

Wind, water, stone.
Breath, blood, bone.

I dwell in Nwyfre, energy, force,
I honor Nwyfre, spark and source.
Candle flame and incense rise,
Enlightened mind and brightened eyes.

…

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You know, I never really got the hang of Twitter. My cell phone is just a phone, with text messages costing me a pretty penny to send and receive, so the idea of receiving instant automatic text message updates from friends in 140 characters (the original conception behind Twitter) was never all that appealing to me. Now, in its current incarnation, Twitter serves as a kind of combination headline ticker and real-time global chat room — and if I never had a use for either of those things separately, I can’t imagine what I’d do with them together.

Still, I do tweet.

Why? I write poetry.

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body politic

noun : (1) human organ of many heads ;
tongues swarming from them [ as in, unison
of insects ] ; hands, tangled beds of nails on
which to rest evenly so as to spread
weight, pressure without injury : (2) threat
posed by ground swellings ; manifestation
of projected intent to harm [ as in,
the body of our enemy is dead,
but not his intention ] : (3) the myth of
history (archaic) [ ‘twas his own love
that killed this shepherd, not our need to kill,
and we remain innocent ] ; public will ;
institutionally anointed gore
to ensure death passes over our door