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Clover
by Tennessee Williams These are fragrant acres where Evening comes long hours late And the still unmoving air Cools the fevered hands of Fate. Meadows where the afternoon Hangs suspended in a flower And the moments of our doom Drift upon a weightless hour. And we who thought that surely night Would bring us triumph or defeat Only find the stars are white Clover at our naked feet. |
When I Am Among the Trees by Mary Oliver When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me, and daily. I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often. Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, "Stay awhile." The light flows from their branches. And they call again, "It's simple," they say, "and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine." |
For the Dead
by Adrienne Rich I dreamed I called you on the telephone to say: Be kinder to yourself but you were sick and would not answer The waste of my love goes on this way trying to save you from yourself I have always wondered about the left-over energy, the way water goes rushing down a hill long after the rains have stopped or the fire you want to go to bed from but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down the red coals more extreme, more curious in their flashing and dying than you wish they were sitting long after midnight |
off to sleep with loveliness on ny mind... *s
Barter
by Sara Teasdale Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be. |
http://lettersfromalaska.files.wordp...ary-oliver.jpg
The Poet Visits the Museum of Fine Arts by Mary Oliver For a long time I was not even in this world, yet every summer every rose opened in perfect sweetness and lived in gracious repose, in its own exotic fragrance, in its huge willingness to give something, from its small self, to the entirety of the world. I think of them, thousands upon thousands, in many lands, whenever summer came to them, rising out of the patience of patience, to leaf and bud and look up into the blue sky or, with thanks, into the rain that would feed their thirsty roots latched into the earth— sandy or hard, Vermont or Arabia, what did it matter, the answer was simply to rise in joyfulness, all their days. Have I found any better teaching? Not ever, not yet. Last week I saw my first Botticelli and almost fainted, and if I could I would paint like that but am shelved somewhere below, with a few songs about roses: teachers, also, of the ways toward thanks, and praise. http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iSObXWSI2t...ummer+1964.jpg |
Her Kind
By Anne Sexton I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind. I have found the warm caves in the woods, filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, closets, silks, innumerable goods; fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves: whining, rearranging the disaligned. A woman like that is misunderstood. I have been her kind. I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. A woman like that is not ashamed to die. I have been her kind. |
Solitude
Ella Wheeler Wilcox Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone. For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth, But has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air. The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care. Rejoice, and men will seek you; Grieve, and they turn and go. They want full measure of all your pleasure, But they do not need your woe. Be glad, and your friends are many; Be sad, and you lose them all. There are none to decline your nectared wine, But alone you must drink life's gall. Feast, and your halls are crowded; Fast, and the world goes by. Succeed and give, and it helps you live, But no man can help you die. There is room in the halls of pleasure For a long and lordly train, But one by one we must all file on Through the narrow aisles of pain. |
Hinterhof by James Fenton Stay near to me and I'll stay near to you — As near as you are dear to me will do, Near as the rainbow to the rain, The west wind to the windowpane, As fire to the hearth, as dawn to dew. Stay true to me and I'll stay true to you — As true as you are new to me will do, New as the rainbow in the spray, Utterly new in every way, New in the way that what you say is true. Stay near to me, stay true to me. I'll stay As near, as true to you as heart could pray. Heart never hoped that one might be Half of the things you are to me — The dawn, the fire, the rainbow and the day |
Eagle Poem
by Joy Harjo To pray you open your whole self To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon To one whole voice that is you. And know there is more That you can't see, can't hear Can't know except in moments Steadily growing, and in languages That aren't always sound but other Circles of motion. Like eagle that Sunday morning Over Salt River. Circles in blue sky In wind, swept our hearts clean With sacred wings. We see you, see ourselves and know That we must take the utmost care And kindness in all things. Breathe in, knowing we are made of All this, and breathe, knowing We are truly blessed because we Were born, and die soon, within a True circle of motion, Like eagle rounding out the morning Inside us. We pray that it will be done In beauty. In beauty. |
Death is nothing at all
I copied this from a book I just read. I thought it was pretty awesome.
" Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away to the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, That, we still are. Call me by my old familiar name. Speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without effect. Without the trace of a shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same that it ever was. There is absolute unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you. For an interval. Somewhere. Very Near. Just around the corner. All is well. " |
Allan Peterson
The Totality of Facts
The laughing gull that flew behind the fencepost and never came out was the beginning and then a hand smaller than my hand covered Wisconsin with a gesture for explanation. In the afternoon there are pauses between the words through which commas can grow like daisy fleabane. A fish with an osprey in its back emerges from the Sound and nothing can be learned by more analysis. The book of her hair opens to its binding and I leaf through the glorious pages of appreciation and that's not all. We could not have turned fast enough to catch light and leftovers from so much of what happened: the swift figures behind you like a planet's dark companion, ships entering and leaving the hall closet the real and imagined between which is no difference. |
A Thought by Benjamin S. Grossberg Like a feather descending in its back-and-forth motion, slow twirl down to one end of a balance, and that end begins to sink— but so slowly that days pass, an unscrolling of weather, the view out the same window over a series of months: trees burst in lime-green flowers so tiny that three or four buds could rest on the tip of your thumb, and then come rainy days, darker leaves, and brightness expanding like the yawning of one just woken— everything unfolding, changing. And now you find it is autumn, and somewhere inside is a difference. A quiet, monumental thing, difference. Some dream had long seemed foundation wall to a structure you’d hoped to build— a Jeffersonian grandness. You’d imagined marble, imagined columns. But now it is you who seem to find the structure more trouble than it’s worth, you who might just, you decide, be okay without so much grandiosity. You even surprise yourself with that word, grandiosity, with its undertone of mocking. What was it? A word, a look from a man that wasn’t— you realized a moment too late— directed at you. A small, casual failure that added its name like another entry on a long petition. No one, not even you heard the creaking sweep, the rusted iron gate of your will. Though afterward, at the window, you may have wondered what bird dropped that feather— though so long ago now there’s no telling what kind, or on its way to what country. |
Summer Rain by Gerald Fisher Father Sky is gray As the new light appears And the laughter of the birds is still the clouds shed their tears and the land drinks of this heavenly dew puddles replace the dust irresistible temptations for little feet Turning my face to the sky and feeling the gentleness of the mist washing away my cares filling my heart with happiness Lifting my spirits like the quenching of the crops Raising my arms I turn to the four winds and give thanks for this gentle Summer Rain. |
This is the only poem I know by heart...so it must be my favorite...I apologize in advance if anyone if offended....
There once was a hermit named Dave who kept a dead whore in his cave he must admit it smelled a bit but think of all the money he saved! |
Tonight I Can Write by Pablo Neruda
translated by WS Merwin Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, 'The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.' The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is starry and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. My voice tries to find the wind to touch her hearing. Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her. · From Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair |
From the book A Rocket in my Pocket:
Ladles and Jellyspoons! I come before you, to stand behind you, to tell you something I know nothing about. Next Tuesday which is Good Friday, there'll be a mothers meeting for fathers only, Wear your good clothes if you haven't any, and if you can come, please stay at home! :seeingstars: |
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Sonnet CXVI: Let me not to marriage of true minds admit impediments Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. |
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. |
Sonnets 04: Only Until This Cigarette Is Ended
by Edna St. Vincent Millay Only until this cigarette is ended, A little moment at the end of all, While on the floor the quiet ashes fall, And in the firelight to a lance extended, Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended, The broken shadow dances on the wall, I will permit my memory to recall The vision of you, by all my dreams attended. And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done. Yours is a face of which I can forget The color and the features, every one, The words not ever, and the smiles not yet; But in your day this moment is the sun Upon a hill, after the sun has set. |
mantra
Still I Rise
by Maya Angelou You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise. |
Mary Oliver
Moon and Water
I wake and spend the last hours of darkness with no one but the moon. She listens to my complaints like the good companion she is and comforts me surely with her light. But she, like everyone, has her own life. So finally I understand that she has turned away, is no longer listening. She wants me to refold myself into my own life. And, bending close, as we all dream of doing, she rows with her white arms through the dark water which she adores. by Mary Oliver from her book "Evidence" |
jagg, who wrote "death is nothing at all"?
great writing. |
This is a pretty gut wrenching poem to me...The perspective is astounding...
Family Stories by Dorianne Laux I had a boyfriend who told me stories about his family, how an argument once ended when his father seized a lit birthday cake in both hands and hurled it out a second-story window. That, I thought, was what a normal family was like: anger sent out across the sill, landing like a gift to decorate the sidewalk below. In mine it was fists and direct hits to the solar plexus, and nobody ever forgave anyone. But I believed the people in his stories really loved one another, even when they yelled and shoved their feet through cabinet doors, or held a chair like a bottle of cheap champagne, christening the wall, rungs exploding from their holes. I said it sounded harmless, the pomp and fury of the passionate. He said it was a curse being born Italian and Catholic and when he looked from that window what he saw was the moment rudely crushed. But all I could see was a gorgeous three-layer cake gliding like a battered ship down the sidewalk, the smoking candles broken, sunk deep in the icing, a few still burning. |
Progress
by X. J. Kennedy Sundays we'd stroll to the railroad track, My white-collared father and I, Where he'd gaze after freight trains billowing past And deliver himself of a sigh— "If I still worked for the railroad, I'd retire with a pass. I could ride To any place in the country, And the country, they say, is wide." Yet for thirty years my father With fountain pen wielded power At the boiler factory in Dover, Keeping track of each man-hour: He would total up columns of numbers In a flash with astonishing skill And never a man's pay envelope Fell short of a dollar bill. He would hike to the bank every Thursday To fetch payroll cash in a sack, The insurance company insisting That a blue steel pistol he pack. How the neighbors would taunt and tease him— "Hey, Joe, would you pull your gun And shoot it out with that stickup man?"— "No, I'd throw him the money and run." He continued to add up numbers In his head till there came on the scene A formidable robot rival, The Burroughs adding machine. My father saw that his number Would be up soon. As he feared, Anybody could tug on a handle And an accurate total appeared. They broke the news to him gently, They professed their profound regret And presented him, not with a pension But a pen-and-pencil set. For a time he displayed it proudly Till the pencil had to be tossed, When it wouldn't quite twist as it used to And the cap of the pen got lost. For more than eight thousand mornings He had walked to his job past a sign Where the Women's Christian Temperance Union had posted a line Ill fitting the situation Of the obsolescently skilled: Life is no goblet to be drained But a measure to be filled. |
Halleluiah
Everyone should be born into this world happy and loving everything. But in truth it rarely works that way. For myself, I have spent my life clamoring toward it. Halleluiah, anyway I'm not where I started! And have you too been trudging like that, sometimes almost forgetting how wondrous the world is and how miraculously kind some people can be? And have you too decided that probably nothing important is ever easy? Not, say, for the first sixty years. Halleluiah, I'm sixty now, and even a little more, and some days I feel I have wings. Mary Oliver Evidence |
Count That Day Lost by George Eliot If you sit down at set of sun And count the acts that you have done, And, counting, find One self-denying deed, one word That eased the heart of him who heard, One glance most kind That fell like sunshine where it went — Then you may count that day well spent. But if, through all the livelong day, You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay — If, through it all You've nothing done that you can trace That brought the sunshine to one face — No act most small That helped some soul and nothing cost — Then count that day as worse than lost. |
Let The Day Go by Grace Paley ..............who needs it I had another day in mind something like this one ..............sunny green the earth just right having suffered the assault of what is called torrential rain the pepper the basil sitting upright in their little boxes waiting I suppose for me also the cosmos the zinnias nearly blooming a year too late forget it let the day go the sweet green day let it take care of itself |
Interesting...
Leeks by Richard Spilman We planted the seeds in the spring And up they came innocuous as crabgrass. The tomatoes soon lorded over them, And even the jalapenos, sad lumps Hanging from their limbs like mittens From children playing in the snow. They stayed that way all summer, And before the frosts of November We pulled them up, declaring failure, And used them as scallions in salads. Winter white covered the clay soil, Like layers of dust in an unused room. Till spring bullied us into wakefulness: Thunder and lightning and the gray rain That heartens depressives with reasons For misery, then out of the sodden ground, Tiny blades twisting in the wound Of the old season. It was shocking: Nothing worse than discarded hopes Butting in when you have given up, Thrusting faith into comfortable loss, Demanding your heart again because This time they've made a proper start, This time they will rise in triumph. |
Terra Incognita
by Andrea Witzke Slot I have scaled unknown ridges and cliffs, only to abseil downward, dropping inside the holes of caves where stalagmites pierced the floors of darkened rooms. I have found mines deep within the crevices of sleeping mountains, waded in underground springs of manatees, minerals, sand. I have upturned rocks, searched the roots of trees in acres of eclipsed valleys, hiked along shores, lakes, becks, running streams. Once I stopped for days at a single hillside, made a bed inside, woke to the sound of falcons and the distant morning dove, the sun glinting off pines that reached upwards with outstretched hands. But do not tell me that love makes us into fools. I know the shadows that pause within the folds of these hills, still miles from where I stand. I've heard the secrets farmers keep, irrigation and rotating crops, when to move in, when to start a fire. I've seen the red skies. I know the warning of dawn. I know too that frozen waters can flow, can once again flow, how fields will blaze anew, if touched by the sun. Blame me, but I will open the curtains. After all, I have lived here for a million years and am long past finding my way home. |
Fireflies by Marilyn Kallet In the dry summer field at nightfall, fireflies rise like sparks. Imagine the presence of ghosts flickering, the ghosts of young friends, your father nearest in the distance. This time they carry no sorrow, no remorse, their presence is so light. Childhood comes to you, memories of your street in lamplight, holding those last moments before bed, capturing lightning-bugs, with a blossom of the hand letting them go. Lightness returns, an airy motion over the ground you remember from Ring Around the Rosie. If you stay, the fireflies become fireflies again, not part of your stories, as unaware of you as sleep, being beautiful and quiet all around you. |
http://www.examiner.com/images/blog/...nning11(3).jpg Dogs by Patty Paine It's said dogs don't think they're human; they believe us to be dogs. What odd dogs we must seem. So clean and clothed. What dog would want our upright concerns, the responsibility of thumbs, burden of metaphor? They lunge into every morning, whirl my feet, until I take them to the park, where they gazelle through fescue, scramble over fallen trees, dart after quarry, real, and imagined. Sometimes I feel like a child with holes in my pockets, every day losing some small stone of myself. But on mornings like this—the dark branches ice-limned and glistening, the good sting of cold on my face— I feel freed from the cage of my body, so light I might soar. |
Love this...
I Could Take by Hayden Carruth I could take two leaves .........and give you one. Would that not be a kind of perfection? But I prefer one leaf .........torn to give you half .............showing (after these years, simply) love's complexity in an act, .........the tearing and ..............the unique edges — one leaf (one word) from the two imperfections that match. |
Cool and cute...
Unification by Ramon Montaigne The Mississippi at its mouth Joins the Gulf of Mexico, The west wind mixes with the south, High pressure with the low. Nothing in nature stands apart, All things rendezvous— I'd like to mingle with you. Intermingled, intertwined, This is what I have in mind. I just feel a sudden urge To merge. The compound that is chlorophyll Formed as the light increases Makes every little flower thrill With photosynthesis. The morning glory mingles With the honeysuckle vine, Come wrap your little tendrils around mine. I've been lonely as a cloud, Drifting miserable and proud, Lonely as a limestone butte— Handsome, noble, destitute, But I need you, I confess Let's coalesce. |
http://i48.tinypic.com/ei5tu0.jpg Interval by Jeffrey Harrison Sometimes, out of nowhere, it comes back, that night when, driving home from the city, having left the nearest streetlight miles behind us, we lost our way on the back country roads and found, when we slowed down to read a road sign, a field alive with the blinking of fireflies, and we got out and stood there in the darkness, amazed at their numbers, their scattered sparks igniting silently in a randomness that somehow added up to a marvel both earthly and celestial, the sky brought down to earth, and brought to life, a sublunar starscape whose shifting constellations were a small gift of unexpected astonishment, luminous signalings leading us away from thoughts of where we were going or coming from, the cares that often drive us relentlessly onward and blind us to such flickering intervals when moments are released from their rigid sequence and burn like airborne embers, floating free. |
The Real Work by Wendell Berry It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work, and that when we no longer know which way to go we have come to our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings. |
French Lesson by Rosemary Okun I wanted to know the language of my ancestors I wanted to know what they said when they made love and when they spoke to the neighbors I wanted to know how they spoke to their children and what my great-great-grandfather said when he stubbed his toe But ancestry is who your mother was and mine came from Brooklyn with a grandmother from Syracuse who said Glory be to God when someone dropped a cup and Bless me Father when she confessed My ancestors went by shanks mare and shouted give him the hook if they were displeased They ate apple pie and their potatoes were Idahos |
At the intersection: burnt August fields
by Jennifer Wallace At the intersection: burnt August fields and blistered streets. The city readies for summer's last fling. Vendors circle the band shell with curried goat and Red Stripe beer. The sound man "check, checks" his mics and Marley's wail unites with insect wings and chicken smoke and air. Where is Jamaica? Baltimore? Where? Tonight they reside on music's continent — behind the chain link, where holstered cops keep peace between the races who don't appear to need much help... they boogie bum to bum under the moon and all the colored lights and everyone singing One Love. |
http://i45.tinypic.com/2cp7teg.jpg In the Moment by Maxine Kumin Some days the pond wears a glaze of yellow pollen. Some days it is clean-swept. The trout leap up, feasting on insects. A modest size, it sits like a soup tureen in a surround of white pine where Rosie, 14 lbs., some sort of rescued terrier, part bat (the ears), part anteater (the nose), shyly paddles in the shallows for salamanders, frogs and little painted turtles. She logged ten years down south in a kennel, secured in a crate at night. Her heart murmur will carry her off, no one can say when. Meanwhile she is rapt in the moment, our hearts leap up observing. Dogs live in the moment, pursuing that brilliant dragonfly called pleasure. Only we, sunstruck in this azure day, must drag along the backpacks of our past, must peer into the bottom muck of what's to come, scanning the plot for words that say another year, or not. |
For The Fallen - Laurence Binyon
For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free. Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted; They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night; As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain. I'd say this applies to all our brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles and friends in all the armed forces out there fighting for us. |
True Love....
True Love
True love. Is it normal is it serious, is it practical? What does the world get from two people who exist in a world of their own? Placed on the same pedestal for no good reason, drawn randomly from millions but convinced it had to happen this way - in reward for what? For nothing. The light descends from nowhere. Why on these two and not on others? Doesn't this outrage justice? Yes it does. Doesn't it disrupt our painstakingly erected principles, and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts. Look at the happy couple. Couldn't they at least try to hide it, fake a little depression for their friends' sake? Listen to them laughing - its an insult. The language they use - deceptively clear. And their little celebrations, rituals, the elaborate mutual routines - it's obviously a plot behind the human race's back! It's hard even to guess how far things might go if people start to follow their example. What could religion and poetry count on? What would be remembered? What renounced? Who'd want to stay within bounds? True love. Is it really necessary? Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence, like a scandal in Life's highest circles. Perfectly good children are born without its help. It couldn't populate the planet in a million years, it comes along so rarely. Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there's no such thing. Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die. Wislawa Szymborska Katniss |
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