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Sunday, July 19, 2009

Your Sunday Poem


By Mary Oliver from her book of poems, “American Primitive.”

BLOSSOM

In April
the ponds
open
like black blossoms,
the moon
swims in every one;
there’s fire
everywhere; frogs shouting
their desire,
their satisfaction. What
we know; that time
chops at us all like an iron
hoe, that death
is a state of paralysis. What
we long for: jy
before death, nights
in the swale – everything else
can wait but not
this thrust
from the root
of the body. What
we know; we are more
than blood – we are more
than our hunger and yet
we belong
to the moon and when the ponds
open, when the burning
begins the most
thoughtful among us dreams
of hurrying down
into the black petals,
into the fire,
into the night where time lies shattered,
into the body of another.

3 comments:

Donna said...

lovely, lovely poem.

and YOU are a busy person!

Bev. De Witt-Moylan said...

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
by Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

Churadogs said...

Woa, good old Dylan. Thanks for posting.