And Know It

For whatever reason 35 feels big to me. I’ve been thinking a lot about it and what I want it, and the time after it, to be, and inside the collection of Mary Oliver poems that I picked up at Tim’s Used Books in Provincetown last week I found a mighty fine answer.

Look, I want to love this world

as though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get

to be alive

and know it.

Summer Kitchen

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.

In June’s high light she stood at the sink
With a glass of wine,
And listened for the bobolink,
And crushed garlic in late sunshine.

I watched her cooking, from my chair.
She pressed her lips
Together, reached for kitchenware,
And tasted sauce from her fingertips.

“It’s ready now. Come on,” she said.
“You light the candle.”
We ate, and talked, and went to bed,
And slept. It was a miracle.

Shakes-Peers

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”.

Aquaman and a Sidewalk Poem

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