Tag Archives: poetry

in praise of ironing.

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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

wintering.

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fairies wintering

“Frost grows on the window glass,

forming whorl patterns of lovely translucent geometry.

Breathe on the glass, and you give frost more ammunition.

Now it can build castles and cities and whole ice continents with your breath’s vapor.

In a few blinks you can almost see the winter fairies moving in . . .

But first, you hear the crackle of their wings.” 

― vera nazarian, the perpetual calendar of inspiration

autumnal tints.

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“october is the month for painted leaves….

as fruits and leaves and the day itself acquire a bright tint just before they fall,

so the year near its setting.

october is its sunset sky; november the later twilight.’

~henry david thoreau, “Autumnal Tints”

 

 

 

image credit: “Autumnal Equinox” by Maggie Vandewalle – TREES