Much happier than I was with Thirst... here is one of my favorites:How I Go to the WoodsOrdinarily I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and thereforeunsuitable.I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirdsor hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way ofpraying, as you no doubt have yours.Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can siton the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almostunhearable sound of the roses singing.If you have ever gone into the woods with me, I must loveyou very much. I wasn't thrilled with Thirst, so hesitated before this one, fearing I would be disappointed and not being able to handle that at this particular moment in my life. Ahh, the foolishness I come up with sometimes.She is a poet of my heart. She knows! I know or at least am learning. Sometimes I feel a little silly, and strange that I identify so much with a poet in her 70's, but it is a strangely silly world at times, so it actually fits perfectly. There are questions you must ask at least once in your life, or all your life. On the Beach: HOW MANY KINDS OF LOVE ARE THERE AFTER ALL? DON’T WE ALL HAVE OUR OWN WAYS OF PRAYING, AND WHAT ARE YOURS? From How I Go to the Woods. I GO TO THE WORLD ALONE OFTEN. I could eat of this world endlessly: sometimes the perfection of a vegetable, its absolute sensuality in the color, crunch, and taste making me realize I am eating of the “blessed earth” and how extraordinary it is from Beans yellow and Green. Tom Dancer’s Gift: Eating a pinecone, from the scat of a bear, swallowing life as bitter or rough it can be. I WANT SOMEONE TO GIVE ME SUCH A GIFT, although could enjoy something not from a bear’s poop. Her dog poems aren’t as fancy as maybe a Pulitzer/national book award winning poem, but find me a dog lover that does not cry at them. From Swan,AND DID YOU FEEL IT, IN YOUR HEART, HOW IT PERTAINED TO EVERYTHING?AND HAVE YOU TOO FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHAT BEAUTY IS FOR?AND HAVE YOU CHANGED YOUR LIFE?The poet advises, don’t allow a “negligence of the mind,” see everything. (How Heron comes) In all her poems, she will not tolerate us closing our eyes, or sleepwalking. Notice everything, find joy and beauty in everything. Change your life. She says, allow pure joy to fill you, and not worry at it apparent flamboyance and excess. (Don’t Hesitate). I cried after reading some of the poems, and caught my breath, and laughed out loud at some of her beautiful and appropriate imagery that invites us to open, look, and see inside and out. So beautiful. After these poems, I walked around as I always do, this time at dusk, and all I could see were stars and sky and tree silhouettes where soon there will be leaves. Bears, ocean, dogs, dunes, pines, swans, and birds. That is the magic of poetry. On the BeachOn the beach, at dawn:Four small stones clearlyHugging each other.How many kinds of loveMight there be in the world,And how many formations might they makeAnd who am I everTo imagine I could knowSuch a marvelous business?When the sun brokeIt poured willingly its lightOver the stonesThat did not move, not at all,Just as, to its always generous term,It shed its light on me,My own body that loves, Equally, to hug another body. How I go to the woodsOrdinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a singlefriend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours. Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can siton the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almostunhearable sound of the roses singing.If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must loveyou very much. Tom Dancer’s gift of a whitebark pine coneYou never know What opportunity Is going to travel to you, Or through you.Once a friend gave me A small pine cone- One of a few He found in the scatOf a grizzly In Utah maybe, Or Wyoming. I took it homeAnd did what I supposed He was sure I would do- I ate it, ThinkingHow it had traveled Through that rough And holy body. It was crisp and sweet.It was almost a prayer Without words. My gratitude, Tom Dancer, For this gift of the world I adore so much And want to belong to. And thank you too, great bear. Percy wakes me (fourteen)Percy wakes me and I am not ready.He has slept all night under the covers.Now he’s eager for action: a walk, then breakfast.So I hasten up. He is sitting on the kitchen counter Where he is not supposed to be. How wonderful you are, I say. How clever, if you Needed me, To wake me. He thought he would a lecture and deeply His eyes begin to shine.He tumbles onto the couch for more compliments.He squirms and squeals: he has done something That he needed And now he hears that it is okay. I scratch his ears. I turn him over And touch him everywhere. He isWild with the okayness of it. Then we walk, then He has breakfast, and he is happy.This is a poem about Percy.This is a poem about more than Percy.Think about it. SwanDid you too see it, drifting, all night on the black river?Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air, an armful of white blossoms, a perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leanedinto the bondage of its wings: a snowbank, a bank of lilies,biting the air with its black beak?Did you hear it, fluting, and whistlinga shrill dark music, like the rain pelting the trees, Like a waterfallknifing down the black ledges?And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds-s white cross streaming across the sky, its feetlike black leaves, its wings like the stretching light of the river?And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?And have you changed your life?The poet dreams of the classroomI dreamedI stood up in classAnd I said aloud:Teacher, Why is algebra important?Sit down, he said.Then I dreamedI stood upAnd I said:Teacher, I’m weary of the turkeysThat we have to draw every fall.May I draw a fox instead?Sit down, he said.Then I dreamedI stood up once more and said:Teacher, My heart is falling asleepAnd it wants to wake up. It needs to be outside.Sit down, he said. The sweetness of dogs (fifteen) What do you say, Percy? I am thinkingof sitting out on the sand to watchthe moon rise. Full tonight.So we goand the moon rises, so beautiful it makes me shudder, makes me think abouttime and space, makes me takemeasure of myself: one iotapondering heaven. Thus we sit,I thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s perfect beauty and also, oh! How richit is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile, leans against me and gazes up intomy face. As though I werehis perfect moon. The poet dreams of the mountainSometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts.I want to climb some old gray mountains, slowly, takingThe rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleepingUnder the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.I want to see how many stars are still in the skyThat we have smothered for years now, a century at least.I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,And peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall. How heron comesIt is a negligence of the mindnot to notice how at duskheron comes to the pond andstands there in his death robes, perfectservant of the system, hungry, his eyesfull of attention, his wingspure light. When When it’s over, it’s over, and we don’t know any of us, what happens then.So I try not to miss anything.I think, in my whole life, I have never missed The full moonor the slipper of its coming back.Or, a kiss.Well, yes, especially a kiss. In your handsThe dog, the donkey, surely they know They are alive.Who would argue otherwise?But now, after years of consideration, I am getting beyond that.What about the sunflowers? What about The tulips, and the pines?Listen, all you have to do is start and There’ll be no stopping.What about mountains? What about water Slipping over rocks?And speaking of stones, what about The little ones you can Hold in your hands, their heartbeats So secret, so hidden it may take yearsBefore, finally, you hear them?Don’t hesitateIf you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or aboutto be. We are not wise, and not very oftenkind. And much can never be redeemed.Still life has some possibility left. Perhaps thisis its way of fighting back, that sometimessomething happened better than all the richesor power in the world. It could be anything,but very likely you notice it in the instantwhen love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb. More evidence…lord, there are so many fires, so many words, in my heart. It’s going to take something I can’t even imagine, to put them all out.Sing, if you can sing, and it not still bemusical inside yourself.
