I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
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Morning Poem (Mary Oliver)
Every morning the world is created. Under the orange sticks of the sun the heaped ashes of the night turn into leaves again and fasten the...
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Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekda...
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nobody can save you but yourself. you will be put again and again into nearly impossible situations. they will attempt again and ...
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