April is POETRY month
Donna Kerr, Branch Head of the Willits Library and Eliza Wingate, Reference Librarian at Ukiah choose a poem for each day the Libraries are open during the month of April.
Poetry
April 3, 2007
Eliza's choice
Eliza's choice
Betty
She loved cut class
Fine china, lace doilies
Everything protected;
Table by a felt pad,
Chair seat by towel or throw
Where Spiky knew his place
If there was no lap
Demure steel grey car
Only 65K miles in sixteen years
Pristine except for hub-caps
Furniture minimal
Wardrobe understated
Lipsticks muted
Possessions rigorously thinned out
Anticipating death
But oh! The dangly earrings
And ah! The bank accounts
Left in aid of animals
In distress
Sandra Wade
Current Poet Laureate of Lake County
Donna's choice
PINK MOON - THE POND
You think it will never happen again.
Then, one night in April,
the tribes wake trilling.
You walk down to the shore.
Your coming stills them,
but little by little the silence lifts
until song is everywhere
and your soul rises from your bones
and strides out over the water.
It is a crazy thing to do -
for no one can live like that,
floating around in the darkness
over the gauzy water.
Left on the shore your bones
keep shouting come back!
But your soul won't listen;
in the distance it is unfolding
like a pair of wings, it is sparking
like hot wires. So,
like a good friend,
you decide to follow.
You step off the shore
and plummet to your knees -
you slog forward to your thighs
and sink to your cheekbones -
and now you are caught
by the cold chains of the water -
you are vanishing while around you
the frogs continue to sing, driving
their music upward through your own throat,
not even noticing
you are something else.
And that's when it happens -
you see everything
through their eyes,
their joy, their necessity;
you wear their webbed fingers;
your throat swells.
And that's when you know
you will live whether you will or not,
one way or another,
because everything is everything else,
one long muscle.
It's no more mysterious than that.
So you relax, you don't fight it anymore,
the darkness coming down
called water,
called spring,
called the green leaf, called
a woman's body
as it turns into mud and leaves,
as it beats in its cage of water,
as it turns like a lonely spindle
in the moonlight, as it says
yes.
Mary Oliver
Mary Oliver
Labels: Mary Oliver, Poet Laureate, Poetry, Sandra Wade