I’m thoroughly enjoying following these bots on twitter.
Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.
I think this is the prettiest world - so long as you don’t mind a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life that doesn’t have a little splash of happiness?
Mary Oliver, “From the Book of Time”
Maggie Stiefvater, “Blue Lily, Lily Blue”
Sylvia Plath, “The Bell Jar”
Walt Whitman, “Leaves of Grass”
Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled–
to cast aside the weight of facts
and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking
into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe imperfections are nothing–
that the light is everything–that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.
words that belong together —
simone de beauvoir, tr. by justin o’ brien, from “The Woman Destroyed,” | carl thayler, poem source unknown | traci brimhall, “vive , vive” | mary oliver, selected poems, vol. 2
when mary oliver said ‘as for the lovers, they are discovering new ways to love’ i was left with no other option than to start screaming
the prettiest world—so long as you don’t mind
a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life
that doesn’t have its splash of happiness?
I don’t want to be demure or respectable.
I was that way, asleep, for years.
That way, you forget too many important things.
How the little stones, even if you can’t hear them, are singing.
How the river can’t wait to get to the ocean and the sky, it’s been there before.
What traveling is that!
It is such a joy to imagine such distances.
I could skip sleep for the next hundred years.
There is a fire in the lashes of my eyes.
It doesn’t matter where I am, it could be a small room.
The glimmer of gold Böhme saw on the kitchen pot was missed by everyone else in the house.
Maybe the fire in my lashes is a reflection of that.
Why do I have so many thoughts, they are driving me crazy.
Why am I going anywhere, instead of somewhere?
Listen to me or not, it hardly matters.
I’m not trying to be wise, that would be foolish.
I’m just chattering.
And Bjork said, “You’ll be given love. You’ll be taken care of. You’ll be given love. You have to trust it—Maybe not from the sources you have poured yours, Maybe not from the directions you’ve been staring at. Twist your head around. It’s all around you.”
And then Joanna Newsom said, “I believe love will always surround you, brave as a bear with a heart rare and true.”
And then, Mary Oliver was like, “Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like wild geese, harsh and exciting, announcing your place in the family of things.”
“Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?”
~Mary Oliver, Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches