Sunday, September 18

inspiration,

O You,
Who came upon me once
Stretched under apple-trees just after bathing,
Why did you not strangle me before speaking
Rather than fill me with the wild white honey of your words
And then leave me to the mercy
Of the forest bees.
—Amy Lowell (1920)


Those who don’t feel this Love
pulling them like a river,
those who don’t drink dawn
like a cup of spring water
or take in sunset like supper,
those who don’t want to change,


let them sleep.
—Rumi


I want to be
loved like
a sunbeam
that is
it comes
across the room
or the ocean
you know the
way I drive
I want to lift
your fear
like a bonnet
and kiss
your living
face. Here
this is
mine. Don’t
misunderstand
me.
—Eileen Myles


The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur?


There was the cat slopping its milk all day,
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk
And August the most peaceful month.
— Wallace Stevens


Sometimes when we lie in bed
you turn your back asking for a scratch.
With my left hand I hold my book
and with the other I stroke
up and down along your spine–
a simple act–connecting.
Something surges up my arm
I want to remember–the warm skin
against the unread lifeline in my palm.
In the ease of this communion
I commission my fingertips to store up
the good of you for days of famine
when your fragile heartbeat may be
scattered on the land. To find you then
I’d dig my fingers into the unmown grass,
the plot of earth behind your music room,
stroke the ribbed tree where you hung
the squirrel feeder. I’d dip my hand
into the lake and hold it there. I want
to hold off death, yours and mine,
as long as I can reach across the bed
to scratch your back and wake up later
to the rhythm of your breathing.
What could death want with us
who take our pleasure from so light a touch.
—Kay Putney Gantt
I am.
A girl pulling pebbles from her pocket,
as honeysuckles press to the grassy sands,
skipping stone to the river bed,
with these wasted hands.

Foliage of the woodland,
changes slower than my will.
Honey oak blends by earthly moss,
digging a grave for the ant hill.

In the forest of my uneven parts,
the benign heart turns to hair,
I am the blame of my lover,
to become dust without care.

Birds and branches anchor my braids,
As sea gloom plucks my core,
Once, there was cherry wood on the table.
Now, I'm back to the seashell less shore.

I pack my travelling clothes,
and I call to the mourning mountain.
It is time for me to go,
It is time for me to go.
—Amy Nelson


born a vagabond, with two left paws, wedlock to a mountain man, now a workhorse to love's unwritten laws.
—Amy Nelson
-life magazine cover November 1913



A museum outing, and poetry.  Inspiration for my Sunday.
I'm planning on doing more inspirational postings, art/poetry sharing, and regular features on the blog. Also, a new layout is on it's way. Fingers crossed for happy days.  (comments are disabled for this post, but feel free to comment on the previous one! let me know what features I should add to flying a kite..your suggestions mean mountains to me..xx hugs)
I love you.


(photographs taken by me, words of my teachers)