My Friends ~ Poetry In Action 
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Poetry
Erato ~ The Greecian Poetry Muse
My Friends ~ Poetry In Action
My Friends ~ Poetry In Action 
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Our President Elect, Barack Obama ...
... is a day and a half away from being sworn in!
...... and the man can dance!
The festivities are already underway.
Excitement is in the air in a big way.
This feels so good!
This footage is about a year old, but I don't care, I love it!
...... and the man can dance!
The festivities are already underway.
Excitement is in the air in a big way.
This feels so good!
This footage is about a year old, but I don't care, I love it!
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Happy New Year!
۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞
I can't stop listening to this! David Nichtern tune . . . with him on guitar. It's so beautiful. I wish I knew what it was called and how to download it.
۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞
Click on speaker icon, lower left, if it doesn't start when the page comes up. Also useful for replay!
I can't stop listening to this! David Nichtern tune . . . with him on guitar. It's so beautiful. I wish I knew what it was called and how to download it.
۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞~۞
Click on speaker icon, lower left, if it doesn't start when the page comes up. Also useful for replay!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
SOR JUANA WORKS IN THE GARDEN
Sor Juana Works In The Garden
By Margaret Atwood
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Time for gardening again; for poetry: for arms
tip to the elbows in leftover
deluge, hands in the dirt, groping around
among the rootlets, bulbs lost marbles, blind
snouts of worms, cat droppings, Your own future
bones, whatever's down there
supercharged, a dim neon in the darkness.
When you stand on bare earth in your hare feet
and the lightning whips through you, two ways
at once, they say you are grounded,
and that's what poetry is: a hot wire.
You might as well stick a fork
in a wall socket. So don't think it's just about flowers.
Though it is, in a way.
You spent this morning among the bloodsucking
perennials, the billowing peonies,
the lilies building to outburst,
the leaves of the foxgloves gleaming like hammered
copper, the static crackling among the spiny columbines.
Scissors, portentous trowel, the wheelbarrow
yellow and inert, the grassblades
whispering like ions, You think it wasn't all working
up to something? You ought to have worn rubber
gloves. Thunder budding in the spires of lupins,
their clumps and updrafts, pollen and resurrection
unfolding from each restless nest
of petals. Your arms hum, the hair
stands up on them; just one touch and you're struck.
It's too late now, the earth splits open,
the dead rise, purblind and stumbling
in the clashing of last-day daily
sunlight, furred angels crawl
all over you like swarming bees, the maple
trees above you shed their deafening keys
to heaven, your exploding
syllables litter the lawn.
By Margaret Atwood
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Time for gardening again; for poetry: for arms
tip to the elbows in leftover
deluge, hands in the dirt, groping around
among the rootlets, bulbs lost marbles, blind
snouts of worms, cat droppings, Your own future
bones, whatever's down there
supercharged, a dim neon in the darkness.
When you stand on bare earth in your hare feet
and the lightning whips through you, two ways
at once, they say you are grounded,
and that's what poetry is: a hot wire.
You might as well stick a fork
in a wall socket. So don't think it's just about flowers.
Though it is, in a way.
You spent this morning among the bloodsucking
perennials, the billowing peonies,
the lilies building to outburst,
the leaves of the foxgloves gleaming like hammered
copper, the static crackling among the spiny columbines.
Scissors, portentous trowel, the wheelbarrow
yellow and inert, the grassblades
whispering like ions, You think it wasn't all working
up to something? You ought to have worn rubber
gloves. Thunder budding in the spires of lupins,
their clumps and updrafts, pollen and resurrection
unfolding from each restless nest
of petals. Your arms hum, the hair
stands up on them; just one touch and you're struck.
It's too late now, the earth splits open,
the dead rise, purblind and stumbling
in the clashing of last-day daily
sunlight, furred angels crawl
all over you like swarming bees, the maple
trees above you shed their deafening keys
to heaven, your exploding
syllables litter the lawn.
