Life is a great sunrise.
I do not see why death should not be
an even greater one.
When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world.
Notice something you have never noticed before,
like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricketwhose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.
Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,shaking the water-sparks from its wings.
Let grief be your sister, she will whether or not.Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,like the diligent leaves.
A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this worldand the responsibilities of your life.
Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.
In the glare of your mind, be modest.And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.
Live with the beetle, and the wind.
–Mary Oliver(excerpt from The Leaf and the Cloud: A Poem)
It must first be said that this shot was taken at the Sydney biennale, an art festival held yearly. One of the works of art was this one from the Artist Antony Gormley (antonygormley.com) It is called Asien fields and was made by 500 Assitants in the Xianxian village, Guangzhou in January 2003.It consists of 125tonnes of gritty black clay.It was one of the most astounding sights I have ever seen. The top floor was filled with these small hand made figures, all of which only spanned 20cm in height. I know it seems strange but I felt as if the figures saw some major fault in all of us that stood there... and they sympathized.
It was a great work and I wanted to share it with you.
Hope you enjoy:)
So heavyis the long-necked, long-bodied heron,always it is a surprisewhen her smoke-colored wingsopenand she turnsfrom the thick water,from the black sticksof the summer pond,and slowlyrises into the airand is gone.Then, not for the first or the last time,I take the deep breathof happiness, and I thinkhow unlikely it isthat death is a hole in the ground,how improbablethat ascension is not possible,though everything seems so inert, so nailedback into itself--the muskrat and his lumpy lodge,the turtle,the fallen gate.And especially it is wonderfulthat the summers are longand the ponds so dark and so many,and therefore it isn't a miraclebut the common thing,this decision,this trailing of the long legs in the water,this opening up of the heavy bodyinto a new life: see how the suddengray-blue sheets of her wingsstrive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothingtakes her in.
He had driven half the night
From far down San Joaquin
Through Mariposa, up the
Dangerous Mountain roads,
And pulled in at eight a.m.
With his big truckload of hay
behind the barn.
With winch and ropes and hooks
We stacked the bales up clean
To splintery redwood rafters
High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
Itch of haydust in the
sweaty shirt and shoes.
At lunchtime under Black oak
Out in the hot corral,
---The old mare nosing lunchpails,
Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds---
"I'm sixty-eight" he said,
"I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
I thought, that day I started,
I sure would hate to do this all my life.
And dammit, that's just what
I've gone and done."
A dragon was pulling a bear into its terrible mouth.
A courageous man went and rescued the bear.There are such helpers in the world, who rush to saveanyone who cries out. Like Mercy itself,they run toward the screaming.
And they can't be bought off.If you were to ask one of those, "Why did you comeso quickly?" he or she would say, "Because I heardyour helplessness."
Where lowland is,that's where water goes. All medicine wantsis pain to cure.
And don't just ask for one mercy.Let them flood in. Let the sky open under your feet.Take the cotton out of your ears, the cottonof consolations, so you can hear the sphere-music.
Push the hair out of your eyes.Blow the phlegm from your nose,and from your brain.
Let the wind breeze through.Leave no residue in yourself from that bilious fever.Take the cure for impotence,that your manhood may shoot forth,and a hundred new beings come of your coming.
Tear the binding from around the footof your soul, and let it race around the trackin front of the crowd. Loosen the knot of greedso tight on your neck. Accept your new good luck.
Give your weaknessto one who helps.
Crying out loud and weeping are great resources.A nursing mother, all she doesis wait to hear her child.
Just a little beginning-whimper,and she's there.
God created the child, that is your wanting,so that it might cry out, so that milk might come.
Cry out! Don't be stolid and silentwith your pain. Lament! And let the milkof loving flow into you.
The hard rain and windare ways the cloud hasto take care of us.
Be patient.Respond to every callthat excites your spirit.
Ignore those that make you fearfuland sad, that degrade youback toward disease and death.
"think of it: not so long ago this was a village" "yes; i know" "of human beings who prayed and sang, or am i wrong?" "no, you're not wrong" "and worked like hell six days out of seven" "to die as they lived: in the hope of heaven" "didn't two roads meet here?" "they did; and over yonder a schoolhouse stood" "do i remember a girl with blue- sky eyes and sun-yellow hair?" "do you?" "absolutely" "that's very odd, for i've never forgotten one frecklefaced lad' "what could have happened to her and him?" "maybe they walked and called it a dream" "in this dream were there green and gold meadows?" "through which a lazy brook strolled" "wonder if clover still smells that way; up in the mow" "full of newmown hay" "and the shadows and sounds and silences" "Yes, a barn could be a magical place" "nothing's the same, is it?" "something still remains, my friend, and always will" "namely?" "if any woman knows, one man in a million ought to guess" "what of the dreams that never die?" "turn to your left at the end of the sky" "where are the girls whose breasts begin?" "under the boys who fish with a pin"
–E. E. Cummings