Fallen From the Fig Tree
Love on top @emblidge

Love on top @emblidge

Reason #517 why I love this city.  Because following a bunny down your side street results in the discovery of all this.

Reason #517 why I love this city. Because following a bunny down your side street results in the discovery of all this.

Just your local woodland creep #concord

Just your local woodland creep #concord

Water ballet @marythemanning @emblidge #whitepond #concord

Water ballet @marythemanning @emblidge #whitepond #concord

Love me lights out

Love me lights out

cocolyshious:

A-Z of Beauty directed by Daniel Sannwald for i-D

Her lips. Those eyes. Jesus. 

Ladies up in here, we like to talk back.

The Tree Telling of Orpheus 
I was the first to see him, for I grewout on the pasture slope, beyond the forest.He was a man, it seemed…He told of journeys,of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark,of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some daydeeper than roots …Then as he sangit was no longer sounds only that made the music:he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened, and languagecame into my rootsout of the earth,into my barkout of the air,into the pores of my greenest shootsgently as dewand there was no word he sang but I knew its meaning.He told of journeys,of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark,of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some daydeeper than roots …He told of the dreams of man, wars, passions, griefs,and I, a tree, understood words – ah, it seemedmy thick bark would split like a sapling’s thatgrew too fast in the springwhen a late frost wounds it.Fire he sang,that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames….Fire he sang,that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames.New buds broke forth from me though it was full summer.As though his lyre (now I knew its name)were both frost and fire, its chords flamedup to the crown of me.I was seed again.I was fern in the swamp.I was coal.In the forestthey too had heard,and were pulling their roots in painout of a thousand years’ layers of dead leaves…And Iin terrorbut not in doubt ofwhat I must doin anguish, in haste,wrenched from the earth root after root,the soil heaving and cracking, the moss tearing asunder —and behind me the others: my brothersforgotten since dawn. In the forestthey too had heard,and were pulling their roots in painout of a thousand years’ layers of dead leaves,rolling the rocks away,breaking themselvesout oftheir depths.We have stood here since,in our new life.We have waited.The music reached us.Clumsily,stumbling over our own roots,rustling our leavesin answer,we moved, we followed.By dawn he was gone.We have stood here since,in our new life.We have waited.He does not return.Perhaps he will not return. But what we have lived comes back to us.We see more.We feel, as our rings increase,something that lifts our branches, that stretches our furthest leaf-tips further.It is said he made his earth-journey, and lostwhat he sought.It is said they felled himand cut up his limbs for firewood.And it is saidhis head still sang and was swept out to sea singing.Perhaps he will not return.But what we have livedcomes back to us.We see more.We feel, as our rings increase,something that lifts our branches, that stretches our furthestleaf-tipsfurther.The wind, the birds,do not sound poorer but clearer,recalling our agony, and the way we danced.

The Tree Telling of Orpheus 

I was the first to see him, for I grew
out on the pasture slope, beyond the forest.
He was a man, it seemed…


He told of journeys,
of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark,
of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some day
deeper than roots …

Then as he sang
it was no longer sounds only that made the music:
he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened, and language
came into my roots
out of the earth,
into my bark
out of the air,
into the pores of my greenest shoots
gently as dew
and there was no word he sang but I knew its meaning.


He told of journeys,
of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark,
of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some day
deeper than roots …
He told of the dreams of man, wars, passions, griefs,
and I, a tree, understood words – ah, it seemed
my thick bark would split like a sapling’s that
grew too fast in the spring
when a late frost wounds it.


Fire he sang,
that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames….

Fire he sang,
that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames.
New buds broke forth from me though it was full summer.
As though his lyre (now I knew its name)
were both frost and fire, its chords flamed
up to the crown of me.
I was seed again.
I was fern in the swamp.
I was coal.


In the forest
they too had heard,
and were pulling their roots in pain
out of a thousand years’ layers of dead leaves…

And I
in terror
but not in doubt of
what I must do
in anguish, in haste,
wrenched from the earth root after root,
the soil heaving and cracking, the moss tearing asunder —
and behind me the others: my brothers
forgotten since dawn. In the forest
they too had heard,
and were pulling their roots in pain
out of a thousand years’ layers of dead leaves,
rolling the rocks away,
breaking themselves
out of
their depths.


We have stood here since,
in our new life.
We have waited.

The music reached us.

Clumsily,
stumbling over our own roots,
rustling our leaves
in answer,
we moved, we followed.


By dawn he was gone.
We have stood here since,
in our new life.
We have waited.
He does not return.


Perhaps he will not return. But what we have lived comes back to us.
We see more.
We feel, as our rings increase,
something that lifts our branches, that stretches our furthest leaf-tips further.

It is said he made his earth-journey, and lost
what he sought.
It is said they felled him
and cut up his limbs for firewood.
And it is said
his head still sang and was swept out to sea singing.


Perhaps he will not return.
But what we have lived
comes back to us.
We see more.
We feel, as our rings increase,
something that lifts our branches, that stretches our furthest
leaf-tips
further.


The wind, the birds,
do not sound poorer but clearer,
recalling our agony, and the way we danced.

There is nearly always poetry in my purse. 
 
A while ago, I was reading Breyton Breytonbach’s collection of poems, “Lady One” while waiting for an ex-employer to finish an appointment. The lobby door opens and an older gentleman walks in. I had a strange feeling we would start talking as soon as I saw him.
 
Within a few moments of sitting down he leans over and says to me, “Reading some poetry, huh?”
 
I tell him the author and his eyes light up. The conversation skyrockets. We talk excitedly about more obscure poets we both are familiar with.  He knows who Denise Levertov is, so obviously the bond I feel to him is immediate. :)
 
He tells me about a poem that he loves so much he cried the first time he read it.  In fact, he loves it so much he had an artist render a copy of it for his best friend when he got married. Problem is, he can’t remember the name of who wrote it. He takes out his phone and calls the friend, calls the wife— still no luck. I help him go through the list of female poets, popular and not; we still can’t figure out who wrote the poem that, “Almost broke me. It’s about marriage and wounds and how they heal yet leave tissue behind. There is a comparison to a horse involved somehow.”
 
After a few minutes of searching and “focusing his brain”, he recalls Jane Hirshfield as the author. I am taking notes at this point and promise to look it up as soon as I get home. I think I found it. In fact, I know I did.
 

FOR WHAT BINDS US
"There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they’ve been set down—
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There’s a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh,
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest—

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.”

 
 
I love when you have strangely intimate exchanges with someone you do not know. When you can connect deeply with a complete stranger over words and literature, specifically poems. Interactions like these remind me, as cheesy as it may sound, why we write, why we read, and why humanity is so beautiful. Our ability to relate to others and viscerally share with a stranger what beats deeply inside us—  that is what miracles are made of.
 
The title of the poem is fitting.
 
So thank you, James, for making my day and giving me the gift of this poem. It was wonderful to meet you.

"my poems all/Are woven out of love’s lose ends."
There is nearly always poetry in my purse. 
 

A while ago, I was reading Breyton Breytonbach’s collection of poems, “Lady One” while waiting for an ex-employer to finish an appointment. The lobby door opens and an older gentleman walks in. I had a strange feeling we would start talking as soon as I saw him.

 
Within a few moments of sitting down he leans over and says to me, “Reading some poetry, huh?”
 
I tell him the author and his eyes light up. The conversation skyrockets. We talk excitedly about more obscure poets we both are familiar with.  He knows who Denise Levertov is, so obviously the bond I feel to him is immediate. :)
 
He tells me about a poem that he loves so much he cried the first time he read it.  In fact, he loves it so much he had an artist render a copy of it for his best friend when he got married. Problem is, he can’t remember the name of who wrote it. He takes out his phone and calls the friend, calls the wife— still no luck. I help him go through the list of female poets, popular and not; we still can’t figure out who wrote the poem that, “Almost broke me. It’s about marriage and wounds and how they heal yet leave tissue behind. There is a comparison to a horse involved somehow.”
 
After a few minutes of searching and “focusing his brain”, he recalls Jane Hirshfield as the author. I am taking notes at this point and promise to look it up as soon as I get home. I think I found it. In fact, I know I did.
 

FOR WHAT BINDS US

"There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they’ve been set down—
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There’s a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh,
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest—

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.”
 
 
I love when you have strangely intimate exchanges with someone you do not know. When you can connect deeply with a complete stranger over words and literature, specifically poems. Interactions like these remind me, as cheesy as it may sound, why we write, why we read, and why humanity is so beautiful. Our ability to relate to others and viscerally share with a stranger what beats deeply inside us—  that is what miracles are made of.
 
The title of the poem is fitting.
 
So thank you, James, for making my day and giving me the gift of this poem. It was wonderful to meet you.
"my poems all/Are woven out of love’s lose ends."