Britt-Arnhild's House in the Woods

Think of the long trip home.......

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Think of the long trip home___should we have stayed at home and thought of here?___Where should we be today___Is it right to be watching strangers in a play___in this strangest of theatres?___What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life___in our bodies, we are determined to rush___to see the sun the other way round___

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The poem is lines from Elizabeth Bishop's Questions of Travel from 1965.

It is Sunday morning and the blue table in the garden has a pile of travel books.I am dreaming. Travels gone, travels coming, travels in mind and in dreams, but most of all; travels in litterature.

Herodotus: Histories is on top of the pile, followed by Ruszard Kapuscinski's Travels with Herodotus. The Sunday is sunny, the Sunday is mine. The Sunday is to be filled with words and dreams of travels.

Can You Imagine? Sunday morning poetry

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For example, what the trees do

not only in lightening storms

or the watery dark of a summer’s night

or under the white nets of winter

but now, and now, and now – whenever

we’re not looking. Surely you can’t imagine

they don’t dance, from the root up, wishing

to travel a little, not cramped so much as wanting

a better view, or more sun, or just as avidly

sore shade – surely you can’t imagine they just

stand there loving every

minute of it, the birds or the emptiness, the dark

       rings

of the years slowly and without a sound

thickening, and nothing different unless the wind,

and then only in its own mood, comes

to visit, surely you can’t imagine

patience, and happiness, like that

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Poem, Can you imagine, Mary Oliver b.1935

Photo: Outdoor service in our church this morning.

 

 

Sunday morning poetry - Life's Roses

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When you are very old, by the heart’s glare,

At candle-time, spinning and winding thread,

You’ll sing my lines, and say, astonished:

Ronsard made these for me, when I was fair.

 

Then not a servant even, with toil and care

Almost out-worn, hearing what you have said,

Shall fail to start awake and lift her head

And bless your name with deathless praise fore’er.

 

My bones shall lie in earth, and my poor ghost

Take its long rest where Love’s dark myrtles thrive.

You, crouching by the firs, old, shrunken, grey,

 

Shall rue your proud disdain and my love lost…

Nay, hear me, love! Wait not to-morrow! Live.

And pluck life’s roses, oh! To-day, to-day.

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Instead of a rose I have two more polka stripe tulips to show you. I am still struggling with "new typepad", and these two photos refused to show up in my previous post.

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Poem by Pierre de Ronsard

Hope

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Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune --- without the words,

And never stops at all.

.

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That keep so many warm.

.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

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My early Sunday mornings are for poetry.

Play along if you want

(and if you give me your link I'll show it here)