I keep a small writing book where I write small poems. I think it's similar to the way fish won't grow beyond a certain size depending on the size tank they live in, or the way a flowerpot can sometimes limit the size of the plant in it. I only use one page per poem in that book. It's almost a form for me. It allows me to limit what I must and can write.
I paged through an anthology today and pulled out a few small poems that caught my attention this afternoon while I was sitting in the shade of my backyard. There's probably some early summer, hot day, sitting in shade, getting sleepy while you're reading theme that runs through the selections... but I don't want to look for it.
Prayer
Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.
Galway Kinnell
Roses
You love the roses - so do I. I wish
They sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!
George Eliot
The Eclipse
I stood out in the open cold
To see the essence of the eclipse
Which was its perfect darkness.
I stood in the cold on the porch
And could not think of anything so perfect
As mans hope of light in the face of darkness.
Richard Eberhart
Time and Again
Time and again, however well we know the landscape of love,
and the little church-yard with lamenting names,
and the frightfully silent ravine wherein all the others
end: time and again we go out two together,
under the old trees, lie down again and again
between the flowers, face to face with the sky.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Touch
My hands
open the curtains of your being
clothe you in a further nudity
uncover the bodies of your body
My hands
invent another body for your body
Octavio Paz
