Below is a beautiful poem by Donald Hall called Summer Kitchen which he wrote after the death of his wife Jane. It reminds me of my childhood, particularly my mother’s place in it. She, too, saw miracles in the ordinary.
College Roommate Danielle and I wandered into Harrison Memorial Library in Carmel-by-the-Sea after brunch today to hang out amongst free books when we happened upon a magnetic poetry board in the basement “Teen Lounge” which neither of us could pass by without making a contribution.
We were satisfied with our output, particularly the work titled “Corduroy”.
I promised Bevan that I’d watch Aquaman with him tonight if he watches Juliet, Naked with me this weekend so I ain’t gonna web log write nuthin’ new though I am gonna copy and paste a poem I spotted on the ground as I waited on a Muni platform after dining with my work team last night.
A day so happy.
Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.
Gift, Czesław Miłosz
I’m rereading Cordelia Jensen’s Skyscraping because I spotted it at the library last week and it is still extremely wonderful.
I squint back into the sky
knowing that this is the moment
in the movie of our lives
where the prop guy
Even though I finished reading it more than a week ago, Rupi Kaur's The Sun and Her Flowers is still all up in my ness.