Here is a poem that I opened up to and just read as means of ritualizing the end of my very productive last two hours of writing writing writing. I like it bc it called out to me, from the same place of illustrious space within where the heart light glows, called out to and moved me in there so that when I opened the book this is the poem that fell out before me.
I like it a ton, also bc it is the theme of my life. In that double sense way all language has that is the very reason I love love love writing-as-art-as-craft-of-life. Or it was the theme of my life, but now, in celebration, no more no more no more....
Poem to end my day, by Sharon Olds
Everything
Most of us are never conceived.
Many of us are never born--
we live in a private ocean for hours,
weeks, with our extra or missing limbs,
or holding our poor second head,
growing from our chest, in our arms. And many of us,
sea-fruit on its stem, dreaming kelp
and whelk, are culled in our early months.
And some who are born live only for minutes,
others for two, or for three, summers,
or four, and when they go, everything
goes--the earth, the firmament--
and love stays, where nothing is, and seeks.
Yup.
1 comment:
good grief what does this mean?
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