Saturday, November 6, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
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:)
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
When I think of death
it is a bright enough city,
and every year more faces there
but not a single one
though I long for it,
and when they talk together,
which they do
it's in an unknowable language -
I can catch the tone
but understand not a single word -
and when I open my eyes
there's the mysterious field, the beautiful trees.
There are the stones.
- Mary Oliver
via whisky river
Saturday, September 25, 2010
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.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Called out of dream by the pitch and screech,
I awoke to see my mother’s hair
set free of its pincurls, springing out
into the still and hurtling air
above the front seat and just as suddenly gone.
The space around us twisted,
and in the instant before the crash
I heard the bubbling of the chickens,
the homely racket they make at all speeds,
signifying calm, resignation, oblivion.
And I listened. All through the slash
and clatter, the rake of steel, shatter of glass,
I listened, and what came
was a blizzard moan in the wind, a wail
of wreckage, severed hoses and lives,
a storm of loose feathers, and in the final
whirl approximating calm, the cluck
and fracas of the birds. I crawled
on hands and knees where a window should
have been and rose uneven
in November dusk. Wind blew
a snow of down, and rows of it quivered along
the shoulder. One thin stream of blood
oozed, flocked in feathers.
This was in the Ozarks, on a road curving miles
around Missouri, and as far as I could
see, no light flickered through the timber,
no mail box leaned the flag
of itself toward pavement, no cars
seemed ever likely to come along.
So I walked, circled the darkening disaster
my life had come to, and cried.
I cried for my family there,
knotted in the snarl of metal and glass;
for the farmer, looking dead, half in
and half out of his windshield; and for myself,
ambling barefoot through the jeweled debris,
glass slitting little blood-stars in my soles,
my arm hung loose at the elbow
and whispering its prophecies of pain.
Around and around the tilted car
and the steaming truck, around the heap
of exploded crates, the smears and small hunks
of chicken and straw. Through
an hour of loneliness and fear
I walked, in the almost black of Ozark night,
the moon just now burning into Missouri. Behind me,
the chickens followed my lead,
some fully upright, pecking
the dim pavement for suet or seed,
some half-hobbled by their wounds, worthless wings
fluttering in the effort. The faintest
light turned their feathers phosphorescent,
and as I watched they came on, as though they believed
me some savior, some highwayman
or commando come to save them the last night
of their clucking lives. This, they must have
believed, was the end they’d always heard of,
this the rendering more efficient than the axe,
the execution more anonymous than
a wringing arm. I walked on, no longer crying,
and soon the amiable and distracted chattering came
again, a sound like chuckling, or the backward suck
of hard laughter. And we walked
to the cadence their clucking called,
a small boy towing a cloud around a scene
of death, coming round and round
like a dream, or a mountain road,
like a pincurl, like pulse, like life.
~ Robert Wrigley
~ Robert Wrigley
Saturday, August 21, 2010
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."
Friday, August 13, 2010
Today you would be ninety-sevenif you had lived, and we would all bemiserable, you and your children,driving from clinic to clinic,an ancient fearful hypochondriacand his fretful son and daughter,asking directions, trying to readthe complicated, fading map of cures.But with your dignity intactyou have been gone for twenty years,and I am glad for all of us, althoughI miss you every day—the heartbeatunder your necktie, the hand cuppedon the back of my neck, Old Spicein the air, your voice delighted with stories.On this day each year you loved to relatethat the moment of your birthyour mother glanced out the windowand saw lilacs in bloom. Well, todaylilacs are blooming in side yardsall over Iowa, still welcoming you.—Ted Kooser
Saturday, June 26, 2010
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.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
"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