In Blackwater Woods

by Mary Oliver

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

New Song

Fist don't clench.
Arms unfold.
Hands don't rend your
hair and clothes.

Mouth don't tense.
Eyes don't mist.
It won't always
feel like this.

Fields that felt the grinding teeth
of locust bloom to flowers, sheath
those months with glory and
forgiving rays.

Joy brings forth a lovely scent,
which wafts among those hours spent
in unfulfilling,
disappointing days.

Fist don't clench.
Arms unfold.
Hands don't rend your
hair and clothes.

Mouth don't tense.
Eyes don't mist.
It won't always
feel like this.

The Closet

In the wake of my dad's homecoming from Iraq, Amy and I finally agreed to clean out "the military closet". Barely able to close, the closet was chock full of every piece of military gear that Amy and I have ever been issued that isn't used on a monthly basis. Even more disgusting than the closet itself were the bags of old training gear that never really got opened- shoved in the closet in our eagerness to forget them. Tonight as I sorted through the mounds of gear, I felt pangs of recognition at almost everything I touched. The ratty AF basic training t-shirt that still somehow smelled of sweat, with a few faded food stains paying tribute to my lasting inability to eat slowly... The desert gortex pants that I was too scared to fish out from underneath my mouse infested bedroom in Qatar... The portfolio I carried with me in basic training- on the inside a list of what was allowed inside of it including "Unused tissues"... an unused 341- the AF trainee disciplinary form that we were required to carry with us at all times. Surrounded by mountains of painful memories, I felt a strong unsettling current of... sorrow? Or maybe simply deep seated sympathy with the terrified 19 year old who wore those too large BDU pants and the unhappy 21 year old who wished whole days away in those too short PT shorts.

What really got me was a pageful of notes about an intro to music class. The definition of baroque, castrati and lute were annotated with an unfamiliar hand and yet I vaguely remember someone sending them to me while I was in technical school. It reminded me of a CD I ordered while in tech school, of famous female opera duets-- of the song "Viens Malikia" from Lakme and the opening

"Come, Mallika, the creepers are in flower
They already cast their shadows
On the sacred river which flows,
calmly and serenely,
They have awakened by the song birds!"

--of a letter I wrote to a friend about my longing for beautiful things-- opera, laughing with friends, and falling asleep on Blanchard Lawn.

I wonder what another five years removed will bring. While I laughed at many of the things we found tonight, there was still a profound sadness. Sadness for the experience itself, sadness for my own reaction to it, and some sort of strange disassociated sympathy for that girl.

Love conquers all.

*This is a post my sister wrote in her blog and I loved it so I am re-posting it. Thanks Amy.

THIS YEAR'S VALENTINE - BY PHILIP APPLEMEN

They could
pump frenzy into air ducts
and rage into reservoirs,
dynamite dams
and drown cities,
cry fire in theaters
as the victims are burning,
but
I will find my way through blackened streets
and kneel down at your side.

They could
jump the median, head-on,
and obliterate the future,
fit .45's to the hands of kids
and skate them off to school,
flip live butts into tinderbox forests
and hellfire half the heavens,
but
in the rubble of smoking cottages
I will hold you in my arms.

They could
send kidnappers to kindergartens
and pedophiles to playgrounds,
wrap themselves in Old Glory
and gut the Bill of Rights,
pound the door with holy screed
and put an end to reason,
but
I will cut through their curtains of cunning
and find you somewhere in the moonlight.

Whatever they do with their anthrax or chainsaws,
however they strip-search or brainwash or blackmail,
they cannot prevent me from sending you robins,
all of them singing: I'll be there.



While this valentine's message is more than a little terrifying, I like it. I like it because the world is a scary place - some days, it feels as scary as this poem makes it out to be. Some days, I worry about things like this. And the pessimist in me occasionally lists them off, pairing each scenario with a likely place (anthrax at the MOA, for instance - that is a recurring favorite).

But we were not created to live in fear, I am certain of that. A life full of fear is not a full life. I like the theme of this poem - that however abundant the horror of the world around us, love is still stronger than fear. I would take a step further than this poet and say that perfect love casts out fear - at least the deep-seated, irrational sort. It allows us to live in a world of mayhem and still love.

Today, I feel buoyed by this. Dad is home and love wins.

Etsy!

I've started my first Etsy shop! I am selling handmade headbands and hair clips.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/AlliKate

St. Valentine's Day

by Norah Pollard


My father was unable to hug me
or talk to me. He could never say
"I love you." He was too shy.
Too, his mind was in
another world.
But whenever he came home from his journeys,
he'd bring me presents--Little Lady Toilet Water,
that grand midnight blue Stetson,
those many Waterman and Parker pens,
the pocketbook with the brass eagle clasp.
And for all occasions, overblown cards
with the puffy scented satin heart or rose
on the ront. Inside, his scraggy signature,
"To my Paddy, from her Daddy."

When you did not give me
a Valentine today,
I was undone.
And I wept in the shower
even though I am an adult and know
gifts are materialistic shallow
commercially driven wasteful crap.

But why, why could you not have
Wasted some mute love on me?

This Paper Boat

by Ted Kooser

Carefully placed upon the future,
it tips from the breeze and skims away,
frail thing of words, this valentine,
so far to sail. And if you find it
caught in the reeds, its message blurred,
the thought that you are holding it
a moment is enough for me.