A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

I'm a Midwestern pilgrim who reads and writes in the West. I'm a conversationalist and a walker. You can reach me here: jreed1490@gmail.com

How the Trees on Summer Nights Turn into a Dark River

rabbit-light:





how you can never reach it, no matter how hard you try,
walking as fast as you can, but getting nowhere,
arms and legs pumping, sweat drizzling in rivulets;
each year, a little slower, more creaks and aches, less breath.
Ah, but these soft nights, air like a warm bath, the dusky wings
of bats careening crazily overhead, and you’d think the road
goes on forever. Apollinaire wrote, “What isn’t given to love
is so much wasted,” and I wonder what I haven’t given yet.
A thin comma moon rises orange, a skinny slice of melon,
so delicious I could drown in its sweetness. Or eat the whole
thing, down to the rind. Always, this hunger for more.

Barbara Crooker

(Source: writersalmanac.publicradio.org)

"Clear Night," by Charles Wright

ecantwell:

Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.

I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.  
I want to be entered and picked clean.

And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.  
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.
________________________

Voyager, there are no bridges, one builds them as one walks.

—Gloria E. Anzaldúa (via mythologyofblue)

Meditation on a Grapefruit, Craig Arnold

sometimesagreatnotion:

To wake when all is possible
before the agitations of the day
have gripped you
                    To come to the kitchen
and peel a little basketball
for breakfast
              To tear the husk
like cotton padding        a cloud of oil
misting out of its pinprick pores
clean and sharp as pepper
                             To ease
each pale pink section out of its case
so carefully       without breaking
a single pearly cell
                    To slide each piece
into a cold blue china bowl
the juice pooling       until the whole
fruit is divided from its skin
and only then to eat
                  so sweet
                            a discipline
precisely pointless       a devout
involvement of the hands and senses
a pause     a little emptiness
 
each year harder to live within
each year harder to live without

mythologyofblue:

I have no
life but this

-Emily Dickinson, The Gorgeous Nothings, as penciled on an envelope scrap, p. 54-55. 

No one’s fated or doomed to love anyone.
The accidents happen, we’re not heroines,
they happen in our lives like car crashes,
books that change us, neighborhoods
we move into and come to love.
Tristan und Isolde is scarcely the story,
women at least should know the difference
between love and death. No prison cup,
no penance. Merely a notion that the tape - recorder
should have caught some ghost of us: that tape - recorder
not merely played but should have listened to us,
and could instruct those after us:
this we were, this is how we tried to love,
and these are the forces we had ranged within us
within us and against us, against us and within us.

"XVII,” Adrienne Rich (via commovente)

(via commovente)

mythologyofblue:

I am impatient with these branches, this light.

-Denise Levertov, excerpt from the poem, “Intimation”