A hand is not fat’s yellow pillow

This oil painting of a hand is so startling to me, and I am frustrated because I can’t find out the name of the artist. Anyway, here’s a poem by Jane Hirschfield: A Hand A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.   Nor is it palm and knuckles, not ligaments or the fat’sContinue reading “A hand is not fat’s yellow pillow”

the wild thyme unseen

Here’s an excerpt from “The Dry Salvages,” part of T.S. Eliot’s long poem Four Quartets: … to apprehend The point of intersection of the timeless With time, is an occupation for the saint – No occupation either, but something given And taken, in a lifetime’s death in love, Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender. For mostContinue reading “the wild thyme unseen”

someday I will rake them up

Here’s a poem of mine that contains the word someday.   October in the Garden   I don’t believe cleaning up the garden. I like to leave it weedy and seedy, Overgrown for the birds, The butterflies , the buddleia bearing branches down to the ground bowing from persistent torrents of summer rain, milkweed podsContinue reading “someday I will rake them up”

at the still point of the turning world

Here is Part IV of  “Burnt Norton,” the first poem in T.S.Eliot’s masterpiece Four Quartets: IV Time and the bell have buried the day, the black cloud carries the sun away. Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray Clutch and cling? Chill Fingers of yewContinue reading “at the still point of the turning world”

Tell me why the stars do shine…

The word “shine” made me remember going to summer camp for several seasons of my childhood.  I wrote this poem about it:   At Little Flower Camp   At Little Flower Camp in the summer of 1957, first time away from home, She’s nine, coddled. Hates how cold the cabin gets at night, hates theContinue reading “Tell me why the stars do shine…”

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