June 15, 2009 § 9 Comments
It’s a bleating rain – it whines as it falls through the air and smashes against the windows.
It’s nice to have an office with windows.
My desk is layered with papers and books turned to pages I will read.
A manual that will explain a quirk in a piece of software I’m using lies open.
All kinds of space, an entire day, yawn open. The opportunity to write sits there. Yet there is no room to write at the desk and no urge to clean everything off, something that could be done in one fell swoop, a grand gesture, something cinematic that sends papers flying, stacks of letters and photos pshooshed to the floor, bits of ephemera and things saved for some reason – all, all whisked to the carpet below. I clean best that way. Take everything out, put back only what’s necessary and do so in an organized manner.
But not now.
I wander to my bookshelf. Who calls? what book calls to be opened and read while the storm lashes?
I choose Mary Oliver. Last week, a fellow blooger (was it ds?) posted one of Oliver’s poems. It was the perfect post.
Poetry is such a good place to go. We’d be lost without poets, without the pictures they take and translate to paper and make or without the simplicty they render, all things translated, making us remember, making us see and remember what’s true.
(pictured: The book was a gift. The shell is from the beach at Sanibel.)Here’s a piece of a poem about rain from Ms. Oliver:
RAIN – Mary Oliver
All afternoon it rained, then
such power came down from the clouds
on a yellow thread,
as authoritative as God is supposed to be.
When it hit the tree, her body
(from NEW AND SELECTED POEMS, VOLUME ONE, Beacon Press: 1992)