Each voice sings in a different way. For Naomi Shihab Nye, I want to post her poems everywhere,
send them to those who have an idea that different races, cultures, creeds make us different.
I was missing the last line from Darling. (I cut and paste it from a Bill Moyers' interview and missed it...)
Our friend from Turkey says language is so delicate
he likens it to a darling.
We will take this word in our arms.
It will be small and breathing.
We will not wish to scare it.
Pressing lips to the edge of each syllable.
Nothing else will save us now.
The word "together" wants to live in every house.
For the Edna St. Vincent Millay:
“Departure” -- how carefully objective Edna is, how intricately she weaves her words.
It’s little I care / know: to I wish...
The strange idea of being of blood and yet letting the blood drop — not into the sea, but land,
Waiting for the drop of rain — the eventual catharsis of tears, the stripped nakedness of it all.
The sonnet likewise — with such active verbs — the image of a woman seeing her man go,
I thought of you and Maine...
The stillness of the woman, and the wind slapping her skirts; the dahlia’s dripping from her hand,
The push, fling, hiss, pound, the door blown shut... And the final line — the words flattened against his speaking mouth.
No comments:
Post a Comment