The world is full of places. Why is it that I am here? — Wendell Berry, The Long-Legged House: Essays (Counterpoint, 2012) Advertisements
When Death Comes When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades, I want to step through the door… Continue reading Mary Oliver
On winter’s margin, see the small birds now With half-forged memories come flocking home To gardens famous for their charity. The green globe’s broken; vines like tangled veins Hang at the entrance to the silent wood. With half a loaf, I am the prince of crumbs; By snow’s down, the birds amassed will sing Like… Continue reading Mary Oliver
I was jealous; therefore I loved. ― Jack London, The Sea Wolf. (Alan Rodgers Books, June 1, 2005) Originally published 1904.
if the heart has devoted itself to love, there is not a single inch of emptiness. Gladness gleams all the way to the grave. — Mary Oliver, from “Honey Locust,” New and Selected Poems, Vol. 2. (Beacon Press; First Edition edition, October 12, 2005)
I was standing / at the edge of the field– / I was hurrying / through my own soul, / opening its dark doors– / I was leaning out; / I was listening. — Mary Oliver, from “Mockingbirds,” White Pine: Poems and Prose Poems (Harcourt, 1994)
you can drip with despair all afternoon and still, on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched by the passing foil of the water, the thrush, puffing out its spotted breast, will sing of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything. — Mary Oliver, “The Poet With His Face in His Hands,” New and… Continue reading Mary Oliver