Tag : Poetry

Rain today, 14 August 2013

FAITHI want to write about faith,
about the way the moon rises
over cold snow, night after night,faithful even as it fades from fullness, 
slowly becoming that last curving and impossible 
sliver of light before the final darkness.But I have no faith myself 
I refuse it even the smallest entry.Let this then, my small poem, 
like a new moon, slender and barely open, 
be the first prayer that opens me to faith. 
— David Whyte

inspiration for bloomfelt.com

Nothing will warm you except your own walking,23 Mai

Your great mistake is to act the drama as if you’re alone
As if life were a progressive and cunning crime, with no witness to the tiny, hidden transgressions.
To be abandoned is to deny the intimacy of your surroundings. ,
Surely even you at times have felt the grand array and the surrounding presence and the chorus crowding out your solo voice. ,
You must note the way the soap dish enables you or the window latch grants you courage. Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity. ,
The stairs are the mentors of the things to come. The doors have always been there to frighten you and invite you. And the tiny speaker in the phone is your dream ladder to divinity. ,
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the conversation. The kettle is singing, even as it pours you a drink. The cooking parts have left their arrogant aloofness and seen the good in you at last. All the birds and the creatures of the world are unutterably themselves. ,
Everything, everything, everything is waiting for you
David Whyte

felted sculpture by Marjolein Dallinga for bloomfelt.com

Winter song,28 February ,2013

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
Derek Walcott

photo collage for bloomfelt.com

After the storm,10 February ,st Sauveur ,Canada

By Mark Nepo

It used to be so
complicated: going
where I’d want
without a word
as if telling anyone
made me less free.
Or coming into
a relationship
like a bus station,
checking fares and
before boarding.
It used to be so
confusing: needing
to be touched
while wanting
to be left alone,
and still it’s hard
to let all I am show
in the presence
of strangers or
intimates who’d
like me to change.

But when I’m
stopped or stalled,
I spray the plants
and they shine for me.
I laugh in public
at what music does
to my notion of silence.
I touch your wrist
and something flows