Black Rook in Rainy Weather
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Leap incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape) ; skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
Sylvia Plath
I was hoping to find a poem about rebirth, the New Year coming up and
all, but
the few that I did find
were contrived, so I just looked for something that resonated with me. I like
this poem - I like the idea
of hope being able to spring itself upon us without warning, of miracles (or
accidents) happening
everywhere. So anyway, hopefully everybody had a wonderful Christmas and is
ready for the New Year!
exclamation point!
Monday, December 27, 2004
Monday, December 20, 2004
Poem of the Week 12/20/2004: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
Hello all! This poem was suggested to me by a friend (credit goes to Matt, for all of you UPSers), and it
is just the right poem for this week. It feels like friends, family, woods, snow, love, comfort, work, and
sleep. Well, I hope that this break is going well for all of you and happy
holidays!!!
Sarah
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
Hello all! This poem was suggested to me by a friend (credit goes to Matt, for all of you UPSers), and it
is just the right poem for this week. It feels like friends, family, woods, snow, love, comfort, work, and
sleep. Well, I hope that this break is going well for all of you and happy
holidays!!!
Sarah
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Poem of the Week 12/14/2004: Where the Sidewalk Ends
Where the Sidewalk Ends
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Shel Silverstein
I know that we are not necessarily in the realm of great great wonderful literature here, but isn't it the season of light? And plus I love this poem. I don't know about anybody else, but I am really stressed over finals and life in general, so here is something to remind us of a lighter time, of nostagia and childhood, of delicious solitude and what my friend here calls wonderful expectation. So happy holidays (part 1)!
love sarah
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Shel Silverstein
I know that we are not necessarily in the realm of great great wonderful literature here, but isn't it the season of light? And plus I love this poem. I don't know about anybody else, but I am really stressed over finals and life in general, so here is something to remind us of a lighter time, of nostagia and childhood, of delicious solitude and what my friend here calls wonderful expectation. So happy holidays (part 1)!
love sarah
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
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