My Life Is Beauty

Summer Afternoon, Shinnecock, by Julien Alden Weir

Meditation on a Summer Afternoon

All the riches of the world exist in shadows

of a walnut tree on sunny summer

afternoons: the small, arresting flutter of

a leaf in a listless breeze; the cleaving

scent of earth and pine and grass and

honeysuckle heavy on the vine; the

rough-and-tumble scratching of a

dozen squirrels in a frantic scramble

branch to branch, and suddenly

they’re statues munching fat, firm

nutmeats, littering with shards of

shell my cluttered yard that I shall

rake another day; plump robins, in

shy trepidation, venturing to search

for succulent gourmet delights, then,

frightened off by someone’s slamming

of a door, they dash away on wing

and call a warning to their mates.

Nearby a brash woodpecker hammers,

hammers more, persists in hammering

upon a maple tree. I clap my hands,

applauding, and to see what he will

do. He quits, and then resumes.

A book of poetry sits idly on my lap,

unlooked at. Pages turn upon a

breath of air; perhaps, I fancy, there’s a

spirit there, enjoying Blake. I listen to my

children at the neighbor’s, splashing in a

plastic pool and laughing with the

unrestraint that grace bestows on

childhood; and down the street, somebody

mows a tidy lawn that’s lined by rows of

peonies, exuberant and lush, absurdly

pink or deep merlot.

Pink peonies (photo by Fanghong)

Something sighs contentedly. Perhaps it’s

I, or else a pixie living in a tribe beneath

the shrubbery. Nothing weighs on me. I

feel so light that I’m surprised to find

myself still sitting on my tattered quilt upon

the grass instead of simply rising, chasing

birds or playing tag with bees. But I am

earthen still, and glad of it, delighted to

be wrapped in humid air; it moves

sufficiently to cool my skin and curl my

hair. The ground is warm, a comfort, womb

of seed and tiny creature curled in sleep,

awaiting dusk.

As shadows must, they lengthen and the

laughter shrills. The time has come. I will

collect the children and go in. I brush away

the thought, just for another minute’s

taste of pure serenity, but also fond

anticipation of the dinner hour—cheddar

cheese and melon salad, I decide, and

lemon pie, and then the bedtime stories

that transport us to exotic climes. The

time has come, but I have evening yet to

savor. Summer comes in such abundant

flavors—warmth and coolness,

thunderstorm, forsythia and clover, early

sunrise, tall and motley hollyhocks—I feast

upon them all.

Assignment 35.1

Every day if you can — but at least twice a week — choose a moment out of the day you have just experienced and write about it metaphorically in the poetic form of your choice. I hope you will do this for the rest of your life. It will prevent your “running on empty,” á la Jackson Browne … or, perhaps even worse, running on autopilot. Entire spans of years of my life, when I was not living poetically or contemplating things by writing poetry, are a blur to me now, and sometimes I go back and try to recapture those lost moments, as in “Meditation on a Summer Afternoon,” above.

Excerpted from the online course How to Write Poetry and Live Poetically at http://preview.tinyurl.com/o5tjeah
See also http://www.hayhouseradio.com and http://www.soniachoquette.com.

The morning stars before they fade

Venus rising over the Pacific Ocean, by Japanese photographer Sho Endo

ON THIS SIDE

Over on the other side, there is a quiet cottage on a

grassy slope, where trees protect and decorate and

cast their pleasing shadows on the water; and where

children, hyacinths, and roses, cucumbers, and peppers

grow, and snowy linens hung to dry are blowing in the

breeze. Inside, bread rises in the oven, herbs depend from

oaken beams, and last night’s chicken in its steaming broth

becomes this evening’s stew, tomorrow’s casserole. An old

man and a young man and a boy are sharing rituals and

mending fences, while a woman, unaccountably serene,

sips coffee, shuts her eyes, and says a prayer of thanks for all

that grace provides.

But on this side are broken shutters, dusty shelves,

unanswered letters, leaves in piles, and moldy flower beds;

and seams half-sewn on half-done dresses; half-forgotten

words in half-read books; and pressing obligations half-

remembered, half despaired of. Morning struggles through

the cloudy panes of windows — gray and half-neglected or,

perhaps, defied. A pallid beam succeeds at last and penetrates

the barrier. It comes to rest upon the drooping pothos, which

persists in barely living, never mind the diffidence its garden is.

The ray of sullen light turns motes of dust to fireflies. At first

they float at random; then they glide; then, whimsical, they

dance as if to challenge gravity or chance; as if they will

their time aloft, to have an audience, to shine like stars.

They catch the sun and flicker. They have won a moment’s

glory. Soon it ends, but they have shone.

On the other side are peace and order; on this side is eagerness

to cross the wide, intimidating border, to be purposeful and more,

to yet achieve, to meet and to exceed an expectation, even one—

to finish what’s begun; half-perfection wishing to be whole, to be

forgiven for attaining less than paradise. But for all that, this side is

painted with the brush that, dipped in heaven’s glory, must in time

adorn the swale with yellow clover and, today, in dust makes

manifest the morning stars before they fade.

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Me, Baring My Soul in Bad Prose

CURED

Me,  baring my soul in bad prose on

a public blog, albeit one nobody sees.

The former me — the self-absorbed, the 

girl  who  never dared to lean back on 

the universe,  the me who cared what

people  thought  of her,  as if the Great 

Unwashed had offered an opinion, pro

or con or can't be bothered,  Lady, get a

clue, there ain't nobody watching  you — 

she  doesn't  live  here  any more...  and  

my,  oh  my,   the  freedom's  sweet,   it  is,

divulging to the world at large, regardless

of its momentary lack of curiosity,  a secret; 

a discovery;  an inspiration;  an epiphany;

 a bit of intuition; something unexceptional

delivered in a burst of spontaneity; or an

anomaly, like this one: Hey, guys!  Listen 

up! I had these ugly blemishes that I was

 in denial of until an angel visited my

 meditation, kissed  me, and  as quickly

vanished in the shadow of the whisper

of an admonition:  Girlfriend? Try not

 to  scratch  those  tender little patches

on your skin. Let them remind you to

be kinder to yourself and not 

to whack your pretty 

face again

Playing God

Forgiven

I wondered at another's strength
begrudged her victory
despite the cost
and was ashamed
of being not as strong

I contemplated Jesus on the cross
while I forgot the resurrection
and the lessons: gratitude, compassion
and I walked away from grace, ashamed
of clinging to my body and not
making of it such an offering

I shunned companionship, ashamed
of wanting it—a friend, an intimate
would be too soft a pillow for a
head that ought to bear a crown
of thorns instead—and with such cruel
thoughts, in solitude, I clawed my spirit
even as I prayed for God to spare me
suffering and loss