photo courtesy of Joel Brotzman
back road to nowhere
in particular, just so
we can see the sky
~ Rebekah Choat
To See the Sky
Category Archives: poetry
How to Fly
There is a trick to flying; the angels told me so:
the first step is forgetting everything you know.
Hating the earth you stand on can almost make you fly,
but it never quite will — you have to love the sky.
–a found poem by Rebekah Choat, drawn from Anne Fortier’s Juliet
Coffee and Poetry
I drink coffee every morning; almost every afternoon, too. Coffee just makes things better, and I feel its absence keenly if I don’t have it.
A good cup of coffee is a complex elixir, a number of lovely qualities perfectly and inseparably blended; however, one attribute may take prominence over the others at certain times. On cold early mornings, its warmth is of utmost importance. Most days, its aroma and flavor are most attractive to me. Sometimes the caffeine boost is my primary reason for reaching for a cup. And on occasion coffee is a social drink, a backdrop for friendly conversation or companionable silence.
Poetry, I find, is much like coffee. It is part of my rhythm, and I get off kilter if I don’t read or write or recall some each day. Sometimes comfort is the most vital aspect; being wrapped in well-worn words calms and soothes me. Many days, I find simple joy in the taste of the syllables on my tongue. Often it is a stimulant, inspiring me in my own work. And at times poetry is a community event, drawing diverse people into a place where they can relate to each other.
Outdoor Communion
image courtesy stock.xchng
The Branch Delicate
E.B. White, Trees of Winter
Oh, they are lovely trees that wait
In the still hall of winter,
Silent and good where the Good Planter
Fixed the root, wove the branch delicate.
Friendly the birches in the thin light
By the frost sanctified,
And here, too, silent by their side,
I stand in the woods listening, upright,
Hearing in the cold of the long pause
Of the full year
What trees intend that I should hear:
Interpretations of old laws…
Hearing the faint, the chickadee cry
Of root that molders,
Of branch bent, and leaf that withers
And little brown seed that does not die.
The cadence of this poem transports me to a great open-roofed cathedral, in which the trees are the pillars and the Planter the unseen celebrant. I stand under the bare, arching branches, the only human for miles, wrapped in a solitude dense with an almost-tangible Presence.
It is good to be here, just to breathe, just to be. All shall be well. It is good to know that this is the place ordained for me to be, for a season. All shall be well. It is good to commune with the trees in this vast stillness, to partake in the mystery of the falling leaf and the moldering root and the seed biding its time. All manner of thing shall be well.
This piece was originally posted on http://www.allninemuses.wordpress.com, the lovely blog of a lovely lady, Kelly Belmonte, without whose encouragement I would not be where I am today.
Ich glaube an Alles noch nie Gesagte
I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for
may for once spring clear
without my contriving.
If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.
Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing you as no one ever has,
streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours, I, 12
Poetry as Therapy
A recent study shows that reading classic literature induces a higher-than-usual level of brain activity, and that poetry can ‘affect psychology and provide therapeutic benefit.’
I can personally attest to at least some of these findings; poetry has most certainly provide(d) therapeutic benefit in my life, particularly the past couple years. Reading poetry, memorizing it, reciting it, talking about it with friends, writing it, writing about it — in all these ways, poetry helps me find my self and my way.
Becka's Blog 