Retrieveless things

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A s   T h e   C r o w   F l i e s

Lake Murray Dam

Lexington, South Carolina

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I tried to think a lonelier Thing

Than any I had seen --

Some Polar Expiation -- an Omen in the Bone

Of Death's tremendous nearness --

I probed Retrieveless things

My Duplicate -- to borrow --

A Haggard Comfort springs

From the belief that Somewhere --

Within the Clutch of Thought --

There dwells one other Creature

Of Heavenly Love -- forgot --

I plucked at our Partition

As One should pry the Walls --

Between Himself -- and Horror's Twin --

Within Opposing Cells --

I almost strove to clasp his Hand,

Such Luxury -- it grew --

That as Myself -- could pity Him --

Perhaps he -- pitied me --

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Saturday

At the throats of lilies

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T h i s   I s   L i t

Society Street Courtyard

Charleston, South Carolina

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No. It will never be enough. Never
enough wind clamoring in the trees,
sun and shadow handling each leaf, never enough clang
of my neighbor hammering,
the iron nails, relenting wood, sound waves
lapping over roofs, never enough
bees purposeful at the throats
of lilies. How could we be replete
with the flesh of ripe tomatoes, the unique
scent of their crushed leaves. It would take many
births to be done with the thatness of that.

= Ellen Bass =

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Happy Friday

In all this heaven

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B o n e s   a n d   J e w e l s

Columbia, South Carolina

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Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet,
For this, the often praised; and be ourselves,
The rain, the chickweed, and the burdock leaf,
The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,
And all that welcomes the rain; the sparrow too, --
Who watches with a hard eye from seclusion,
Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done.
There is an oriole who, upside down,
Hangs at his nest, and flicks an orange wing, --
Under a tree as dead and still as lead;
There is a single leaf, in all this heaven
Of leaves, which rain has loosened from its twig:
The stem breaks, and it falls, but it is caught
Upon a sister leaf, and thus she hangs;
There is an acorn cup, beside a mushroom
Which catches three drops from the stooping cloud.
The timid bee goes back to the hive; the fly
Under the broad leaf of the hollyhock
Perpends stupid with cold; the raindark snail
Surveys the wet world from a watery stone ...
And still the syllables of water whisper:
The wheel of cloud whirs slowly: while we wait
In the dark room; and in your heart I find
One silver raindrop, -- on a hawthorn leaf, --
Orion in a cobweb, and the World.

= Conrad Aiken =

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Happy Thursday

Vaulting on thine airy feet

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M i n d   H o w   Y o u   G o

Elmwood Cemetery

Columbia, South Carolina

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Voice of the summerwind,
Joy of the summerplain,
Life of the summerhours,
Carol clearly, bound along.
No Tithon thou as poets feign
(Shame fall 'em they are deaf and blind)
But an insect lithe and strong,
Bowing the seeded summerflowers.
Prove their falsehood and thy quarrel,
Vaulting on thine airy feet.
Clap thy shielded sides and carol,
Carol clearly, chirrup sweet
Thou art a mailèd warrior in youth and strength complete;
Armed cap-a-pie,
Full fair to see;
Unknowing fear,
Undreading loss,
A gallant cavalier
Sans peur et sans reproche,
In sunlight and in shadow,
The Bayard of the meadow.

= Alfred, Lord Tennyson =

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Happy Wednesday

Diggers, like badgers

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A n t i c i p a t i o n

Front Porch Feeder

Columbia, South Carolina

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Do you remember the night Abraham first saw
The stars? He cried to Saturn: “You are my Lord!”
How happy he was! When he saw the Dawn Star,

He cried, “You are my Lord!” How destroyed he was
When he watched them set. Friends, he is like us:
We take as our Lord the stars that go down.

We are faithful companions to the unfaithful stars.
We are diggers, like badgers; we love to feel
The dirt flying out from behind our back claws.

And no one can convince us that mud is not
Beautiful. It is our badger soul that thinks so.
We are ready to spend the rest of our life

Walking with muddy shoes in the wet fields.
We resemble exiles in the kingdom of the serpent.
We stand in the onion fields looking up at the night.

My heart is a calm potato by day, and a weeping
Abandoned woman by night. Friend, tell me what to do,
Since I am a man in love with the setting stars.

= Robert Bly =

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Happy Tuesday