The Poet With His Face in His Hands
You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need any more of that sound.
So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
July 4, 2008
The perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything
I was perusing through the Best American Poetry 2006 this morning. Many poems go right over my head (my inadequacy) but this one I liked. Mary Oliver's poems (1, 2) are always so rich and suffused with nature's beauty but this one had a great impact due to the contrast with the human condition, 'dripping with despair.'
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