Little Blogs 2

Each day until I can no longer read

Four days ago I suddenly had a thought as I looked at my shelves of poetry books: from this day until I can no longer read I intend to read at least ONE POEM per day. Or night...I have started with Mary Oliver's collection called Thirst, the one following the death of her partner of over forty years. Hard to keep to one poem...and mostly don't...but how can lines like these be anything but an invitation to read one more?

My work is loving the world...

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me

keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished...

Besides means I go to sleep with a smile of peaceful forest scenes...

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Latest comments

24.04 | 21:27

Hi Brenda,
I did some writing this last week.
Here is it. :)

12.02 | 08:41

Hi Laurie, You will find The Choice on

18.10 | 18:29

Thanks, glad you found it here. I think it's remarkable. Holly's grandmother is one of my long and close friends; it was she who sent it.

18.10 | 17:38

Thanks for posting this. I heard it read from Abbey Theatre in their "Dear Ireland" and was hoping that I would find it on the web. I thought it stole the show.

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