Poetry is pure white.
It emerges from water covered with drops,
is wrinkled, all in a heap.
It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet,
has to be ironed out, the sea’s whiteness;
and the hands keep moving, moving,
the holy surfaces are smoothed out,
and that is how things are accomplished.
Every day, hands are creating the world,
fire is married to steel,
and canvas, linen, and cotton come back
from the skirmishings of the laundries,
and out of light a dove is born –
pure innocence returns out of the swirl.
–in praise of ironing by Pablo Neruda, translated by Alastair Reid
“the exact day I became a poet was april 1, 1965,
the day I bought my first typewriter.”
in honor of poetry month.
mine was the day I learned to hold a pencil
and found a scrap of paper to scribble on.
image credit: daskeyboard
a poem begins with a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong,
a homesickness, a lovesickness.
happy birthday, robert frost – born march 1874
image credit: maurice shapiro – woodland sketch
“i simply do not distinguish between work and play.”
r.i.p. mary oliver, one of my favorite poets – i agree.
image credit: alice boughton,
Teachers and kindergarten students
Warm-toned Gelatin Silver Print unmounted 1910 USA