Tag Archives: poet

listen, earth sings.

May be an image of flower, nature and body of water
 Claude Monet’s gardens in Giverny, France
 “Spring has returned again.
The Earth is like a child
that knows poems by heart;
so many poems, so many verses,
patient toil winning her prizes at last.
Strict, the old teacher.
We loved the whiteness in the old
gentleman’s beard,
its bright snow.
Now when we ask what the green,
what the blue is,
Earth knows the answer,
has learned it.
She knows.
Earth, you’re on holiday,
lucky one: play now!
Play with us children!
We’ll try to catch you.
Glad, joyous Earth!
The gladdest must win.
Every lesson the old teacher
taught her,
all that is printed in roots
and laborious stems:
now she sings it!
Listen, Earth sings.”
– Rainer Maria Rilke
“The inspiration for this sonnet came from
a visit to Ronda, in southern Spain, in the
winter of 1912-13. Rilke had overheard a
group of schoolchildren singing in the Convent
of Santo Domingo, accompanied only by a
triangle and tambourine. He didn’t know what
their song meant, but the light-hearted
animation of their singing is reflected in the
cadences of the second and third stanzas.”
on international poetry day

in praise of ironing.


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

april one.


“the exact day I became a poet was april 1, 1965,

the day I bought my first typewriter.”

-august wilson 


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

poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that in the pouring out of one language into another it will evaporate. -john denham



Everything on the earth bristled,

the bramble pricked

and the green thread nibbled away,

the petal fell,

falling until the only flower was the falling itself.

Water is another matter,

has no direction but its own bright grace,

runs through all imaginable colors,

takes limpid lessons from stone,

and in those functionings plays out

the unrealized ambitions of the foam.

Pablo Neruda


killarney, ireland

the happy poet.


and yet again, a movie i’ve never heard of, begged me to take it off the shelves of my local library, and into my living room. Image

‘the happy poet’ is an indie-comedy, a classic tale of the underdog, fighting the system, and trying to make the world a better place. (and hot-dog free, in this case.) written and directed by paul gordon, who also stars as the lead, ‘the happy poet’ was shot in austin, texas, on a small budget, and released on the film festival circuit. slow-moving, quiet, wryly funny, simply shot, with single piano notes as its only soundtrack, i was quickly drawn into this very human story. 

when we meet the poet, he is struggling – in life, in trying to find his happiness, and with no idea about where to go for the answers. he is as dry, deadpan, and honest a character as you will ever meet, and one who has an understated passion for the things he believes in. it’s his sincerity and heart, that draws an eccentric bunch of people to him, each with their own heart of gold, who stay close, keep him motivated, look out for him, and prove their loyalty in interesting ways. I’m happy this poet quietly called out to me from the shelves. 

When what we are is what we want to be, that’s happiness.  – Malcolm Forbes


 image credit: Cinema Libre