sometimes i wonder, am i not a dreamer? or is it that i don’t dream your same dreams?
Palestinians ride horses on Gaza beach as the sun sets in Gaza City on February 15, 2013. (Hatem Moussa/AP)
(via urbannoir)
Hum, Hum by Mary Oliver
1.
One summer afternoon I heard
a looming, mysterious hum
high in the air; then came something
like a small planet flying past –
something
not at all interested in me but on its own
way somewhere, all anointed with excitement:
bees, swarming,
not to be held back.
Nothing could hold them back.
2.
Gannets diving.
Black snake wrapped in a tree, our eyes
meeting.
The grass singing
as it sipped up the summer rain.
The owl in the darkness, that good darkness
under the stars.
The child that was myself, that kept running away
to the also running creek,
to colt’s foot and trilliams,
to the effortless prattle of the birds.
3. SAID THE MOTHER
You are going to grow up
and in order for that to happen
I am going to have to grow old
and then I will die, and the blame
will be yours.
4. OF THE FATHER
He wanted a body
so he took mine.
Some wounds never vanish.
Yet little by little
I learned to love my life.
Though sometimes I had to run hard –
especially from melancholy –
not to be held back.
5.
I think there ought to be
a little music here:
hum, hum.
6.
The resurrection of the morning.
The mystery of the night.
The hummingbird’s wings.
The excitement of thunder.
The rainbow in the waterfall.
Wild mustard, that rough blaze of the fields.
The mockingbird, replaying the songs of his
neighbors.
The bluebird with its unambitious warble
simple yet sufficient.
The shining fish. The beak of the crow.
The new colt who came to me and leaned
against the fence
that I might put my hands upon his warm body
and know no fear.
Also the words of poets
a hundred or hundreds of years dead —
their words that would not be held back.
7.
Oh the house of denial has thick walls
and very small windows
and whoever lives there, little by little,
will turn to stone.
In those years I did everything I could do
and I did it in the dark –
I mean, without understanding.
I ran away.
I ran away again.
Then, again, I ran away.
They were awfully little, those bees,
and maybe frightened,
yet unstoppably they flew on, somewhere,
to live their life.
Hum, hum, hum.
Ben Toms (British, based London, England) - Floral Romance for Vogue China November 2017, Photography
(Source: awake-smile.blogspot.com, via urbannoir)
Sharon Olds, from “Little Things”; Strike Sparks: Selected Poems, 1980-2002
(via urbannoir)
When you are alive enough, you experience intimacy in a thousand places. The world is nothing if not creative. And I am nothing if not touchable, if not malleable by nature. When you are alive enough, everything makes an impression–especially color, laughter, running water, the voice of someone you like. There is a tenderness so plenty you could never waste it. I savor the things I haven’t tasted. When you are alive enough, you are easily bruised by sweetness. I dare to be the mosaic life makes of me. I dare to be soft enough to withstand a thousand loves.
(via queengreendown)
overdue change is painful,
wherever i go, i’m only
as good as my mind
which is only good if
you’re mine
every stone on the road
precious to me
