WhiteFire Woman: Dreaming A Map of the Emotions

Art Stamping Workshop

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Give her my poems to read, Give her my photos beside — Be kind to the newly-wed! For how could I help you? Evening In the garden strains of music , Full of inexpressible sadness. Scent of the sea, pungent, fresh, On an ice bed, a dish of oysters. He said to me: How unlike an embrace The closeness of his caress. Thus, you stroke birds or cats, yes, Thus you view shapely performers… In his calm eyes only laughter, Beneath pale-gold eyelashes.

And the voices of sad viols Sang behind drifting vapour: On the walls, birds and flowers Pine for the clouds and air. The smoke from your black pipe Makes strange vapours rise. The skirt I wear is tight, Revealing my slim thighs. Your eyes, are they those Of some cautious cat, I wonder? O, my heart how you yearn! Is it for death you wait?

Or that girl, dancing there, For hell to be her sure fate? Under the green lamp, His smile was lifeless, Whispering: Given me three carnations Without raising their eyes. O, dear tokens, Where can you hide? Enough, Go now, quench your love! And I weakly, waste away, Though the blood beats more strongly. If I die, who will write, These poems to you, Whose voice will ring With my still unspoken words? But I know the pain in your grey eyes, And my sickness is down to you, too. None when they fall out of love. High water in the Neva, Fear of flood in the city. He talked of the summer and said, How absurd — a woman poet!

And I, in that moment, was granted, The latest of all my mad songs. Love, as one loves a bride. I was wrong in every way. Why did you take that vow On the path to suffering? And death held out its hand…oh, Speak, why then, what for? Happy boy, my tormented Owlet, oh, forgive me! Today, I find it hard To leave this sanctuary. Impossible grief, pointless waiting! And the silver-voiced deer, again, Under the Northern Lights, belling. Or that one who left your captivity, And walked into white death, freely? I wake, and I remember: And, twining my braids for night, As if I must wear them tomorrow, I look from the window at sand-dunes, sea, Free of sorrow.

Under the Galernaya arch, Our shadows, for eternity. But a moment ago, a moment, The poplars suddenly stilled, And your ineffable joy, Rang out, your poisonous song. Such sensitive, strange eyes in the streets, The bright toys in the shops: A lion with a book, on a lace pillow, A lion with a book, on a marble pillar. Not a single muscle shifting Beneath that evil-glistening. For Alexander Blok I came to the poet as a guest.

And a raspberry tinted sun Above tangles of blue smoke… How clearly the taciturn Master turns, on me, his look! His eyes are of that kind Remembered by one and all: Better take care, mind: White Flock , or grief, even at night, the road is light. My thanks, to its builders, May they evade pain and woe, Here, I see suns rise earlier, Here, their last splendours glow.

High skies and mountain winds, And my thoughts now innocent. Insomnia, my nurse, is elsewhere. And the curved hand on the tower clock, Is no longer a deadly arrow. How the past loses power over the heart! Who told it all my sins, And inspired it to absolve me? Or is its voice repeating Your last poems to me? The sunset a crimson bonfire, And slow shadows thickened. Let him not long for my eyes, Prophetic and unchanging, He will have a lifetime of verse, The prayers of my proud lips.

And friendship too is powerless, and years Of sublime flame-filled happiness, When the soul itself is free, a stranger, To the slow languor of sensuality. Those who try to reach that boundary are mad, And those who have — are filled with anguish. Go alone, and heal the blind, To know, in the heavy hours of doubt, The mockery of gloating followers, The indifference of the crowd. You knew it was still alive in me, That dreadful week of passion. I heard no pealing of bells, Floating in clear azure, For seven days copper laughter chimed, Silvery sorrow streamed.

And I, veiling my face, As if for eternal parting, Lay, awaiting there The still-nameless torment. The road by the seaside garden darkens, The road by the seaside garden darkens, The lights are a fresh yellow. Do no harm, my gentle one, To anyone on earth. This breeze — wide and windy, Will delight a boat or two! I purposely avoid your red house, That red house on its muddy river, But I know I bitterly disturb Your sunlit heart at rest.

Though you never bent to my lips, Imploring love, Never immortalised my longing In verse of gold — I secretly conjure the future, When evening shines clear and blue, And foresee the inevitable meeting, A second meeting, with you. And, dazzlingly slender, Crossed legs impervious to cold, She sits on a northern stone, And gazes at the road.

I felt a vague fear, In front of this famous girl. Rays of thinning light Playing over her shoulders. There behind the striped fence, By pensive waters, We remembered with joy The gardens of Tsarskoye Selo.

Swooping into the valley From the wondrous gate of bronze. To keep the song of the pain of parting Alive in the memory, Autumn in her dark skirt Brought the red leaves. Scattered them on the steps, Where I said farewell, Whence into the realm of shadows You my consolation, fled. Frosted white, the black fir-trees Standing in melting snow. Leave me to my prophetic dreams… A drunken flame reels Over the dry grey marshes. And the Muse in a ragged shawl, Sings a long despondent song, With a harsh youthful yearning, With her miraculous strength. The cold of early morning will please.

There are villages, mysterious and dark — Storehouses of immortal labour. My calm and trusting love Of that place will never be vanquished. Sit down now, close to me, And look with joyful eyes: Here it is, the blue notebook — Filled with my childhood poems.

Ripley under Ground Patricia Highsmith : Read online

Forgive me that I lived in sorrow, Rejoiced too little in the sun. Forgive, forgive, that I mistook Too many others for you. Or only in twilit thoughts instead, Be mourned, in that peaceful glow? No one was cherished more, Or made me suffer: Can Christmas soon be here? The steppe is touchingly green. When tired, languid from happiness, I used to dream of such quiet, With unutterable wonder, And thus I imagined myself, A posthumous, wandering soul.

I think someone who gazed full In my eyes, would see it straight. I know the gods changed people To things, yet left consciousness free. And you are truly the capital, For we who are mad and luminous; But when those pure and special hours Linger above the Neva, And the wind in May sweeps round The columns that edge the water, You are like a sinner seeing, before death, A sweetest dream of paradise.

Plantain, Hear, at least, the sounds That once were dear. How many years will I live? Yet no sound in the cool grove… Now I am going home, And a refreshing breeze Kisses my burning brow. I bring good fortune To all my lovers. One of them is alive, In love with his darling. The other turned to bronze In the snowy square. And the short skirts of the slim reapers, Fly like festive flags in the breeze, Now, the sound of bells would be joyful, And a long gaze from under dusty lashes. Perhaps, in that dazed by fear and grief, It touched a blackest sore It could not heal.

In the west the earthly sun shines yet, And city roofs gleam in its light, But here the white one marks doors with crosses, Summons the crows, and the crows are in flight. A cool summer it was, Like a new life begun. The sky seems a vault of stone, Wounded by yellow fire, And more than my daily bread I need some word of him. Dew-wet grass Refresh my soul with news — Not for passion, or for pleasure, But for deep love of this earth. The prophesied days have come to pass.

Last poem of mine, earth has lost its magic. Not long ago, free as a swallow, You accomplished your morning flight. And the face appears pale, Against the lavender silk, My straight bangs Almost reach my eyebrows. And how dissimilar to flight Is my halting step, As if it were a raft beneath my feet, Not these wooden parquet squares.

And the pale lips are slightly parted, The breathing laboured and uneven, And over my heart tremble The flowers of a non-existent meeting. Fields and gardens, Tranquil and green, The waters there still deep, The heavens pale. Petrograd , Caged in this savage capital, We have forgotten forever The townships, the lakes, the steppes, The dawns, of our great motherland.

In the circuit of blood-stained days and nights, A bitter languor overcomes us… No one wishes to come to our aid, Because we choose to remain here, Because, in love with our city, More than the wings of liberty, We preserved to ourselves, Its palaces, flames, and waters. By day, a mysterious wood, near the town, Breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume. Above the old town, nights are diamond-bright, Russian: Winning the Pulitzer Prize for American Primitive in broadened her readership but did not bring this respected poet out of the closet.

Perjaps spurred by "out and proud" winner Paul Monette nonfiction, Borrowed Time and Dorothy Allison fiction, Bastard Out of Carolina , according to an unnamed Lambda Book Report staffer, Oliver took the stage at the award ceremony and thanked both the Democrats and "the light of my life, Molly Malone Cook," the woman to whom she dedicates her books. And yet, her personal aesthetic clearly aligns her with a lesbian literary tradition. Rhythmically, her poems adjust themselves to the pace of the poet-observer as she makes her way through forests, across meadows, and along the shore in her native habitat on the Atlantic coast.

Mary Oliver will never be a balladeer of contemporary lesbian life in the vein of Marilyn Hacker, or an important political thinker like Adrienne Rich; but the fact that she chooses not to write from a similar political or narrative stance makes her all the more valuable to our collective culture. Poets who choose indirection as a strategy do so, at least in part, because that is what poetry means to them as a form of expression that can transcend its historical context.

We owe them the favor of giving their work our fullest attention, no matter what shelf we find it on. From Sue Russell, "Mary Oliver: The power of Oliver's highly acclaimed poetry rests in its passionate attention to the natural world which she sees as the source of revelation about ultimate things. Like her romantic predecessors, Oliver locates wisdom in the wilderness she seeks in solitude, where discoveries about the self and nature's otherness can be made. Her poems of thirty years and her recent prose collection, Blue Pastures , reveal an art driven by visionary conviction in a manner similar to her claimed influences, William Blake and Walt Whitman.

Expressed in simple language and familiar imagery, evoking dark and joyous states, this vision of nature is often conveyed in an ecstatic voice that compels. Celebratory and spiritual in her poetic vision, Oliver is one of America 's finest nature poets. Her first collection, No Voyage and Other Poems , is rooted in a mythical sense of the land and exhibits simplicity and a fine mastery of form, though some critics found the poems mannered.

Like Robert Frost, her plain language and conventional forms could mask attention to an uncommon vision of nature's forces. The poems in The River Styx, Ohio and Other Poems call up an Ohio heritage and reclaim it through memory and myth, while her chapbooks, Night Traveler and Sleeping in the Forest , develop the mythic dimension more fully, using themes of dreams, birth, and death. Oliver charts a course in the twenty-six poems of Night Traveler between two worlds, human and natural, where the individual faces loneliness and yearns to transcend the limited human world.

In "Winter Sleep," the speaker voices her affinity with the she-bear who is the night traveler of the book's title and whose image, closely identified with the poet, reappears in later work. This desire to merge with nature's kingdom opens Oliver's fourth collection, Twelve Moons , in its first poem, "Sleeping in the Forest," a poem where the poet vanishes over and over into the earth.

Crafted thematically, Twelve Moons presents a wholistic vision of natural cycles, balancing these processes, as she does eloquently in the twelve moon poems, with what exists in human experience. Heralded for its perceptions of the visible world and the lyric intensity of Oliver's voice, American Primitive , like no other collection before it, celebrates union with the natural world, immersion in wood and swamp, and becoming other: For Oliver, the desire to become another begins with longing that originates in the body, but the mind presents an opposing impulse and attempts to bring the body to self-consciousness.

In "Crossing the Swamp" and "August," the speakers in the poems merge easily with the other; in the former, she becomes the swamp, her body sprouting branches from the swamp's life force; in "August," she is the bear, more animal than human. Through Oliver's repeating verbs of desire, American Primitive, which was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in , sings its belief that fusion with nature or merging with the non-human releases the self's multiplicity, fluidity, and ultimate joy. Widening her vision in Dream Work , Oliver expands her subject matter in an increasingly fluid voice, touching on music and the intimate lives of others in "Consequences," "Robert Schumann," and, in the tribute to her mentor, "Stanley Kunitz.

As before, the ever-present theme, expressed primarily in poems of four or five line stanzas, is still the sensuous world. Spiritual and prophetic, the poems raise philosophical questions, and in revelatory moments, such as the conclusion of "Wild Geese," they signal the importance of the imagination. In Oliver's oeuvre, New and Selected Poems , which is structured in reverse chronological order, a prevailing idiom of wonder and awe reigns.

Anna Akhmatova

Most of the poems bear the unique stamp of an Oliver poem: The stylistic hallmarks of conversational tone, plain diction, and momentous endings, which frequent Oliver's past collections, appear in the new poems as well. These poems have their strength, however, in the theme of imagined death, which is the final wedding of human and natural for the poet.

Death recurs in the thirty new poems in various manifestations: The companion prose works, A Poetry Handbook and Blue Pastures , collectively offer Oliver's wisdom about the craft of writing, including the analysis of exemplary poems, and reflection on the necessity of solitude and mystery for a writer's life.

Chapters on sound, the line, imagery, tone, and form in A Poetry Handbook serve as Oliver's concise, experienced guide to writing poetry. The observational powers that enrich Oliver's poetry surface in the form of soliloquies in Blue Pastures, providing insight to Oliver's childhood, her poetics and philosophy of nature. She meditates on Whitman as the brother she never had, on the merciless homed owl in its flight, and on language as a door past the self. Her brilliant, empathetic essay on the complex love affair between Edna St. Vincent Millay and George Dillon provokes the larger human question; how can we know another's life?

This collection, transcendent like her best poems, confirms Oliver's talent for prose writing, which she began in White Pine , a collection of poems and prose poems looser in structure and, according to several critics, somewhat given to commonplace adjectives and adverbs. You have beautiful dreams. Amy, you have beautiful, beautiful, beautiful dreams. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful dreams. Painted blue in the sand, I stand with my hands wrapped round the strings of a million things. With my face lifted up like an empty cup, from the bottom I wait with my arms lifted up in the pale, pale blue of the night.

I've been traveling long. I don't know if it's wrong. All I know is I'm missing a place for a song, and the moon will sing with me tonight. I'll paint the moon, paint it high, paint it real, paint it bright, paint the moon what I'm missing tonight.

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In these woods is a light, only comes with the night. In these woods, I feel all right. At the edge of the dark, I can see the marks on these hands that are holding too tight. One's for all I'm made of. One's for letting go. One's for reaching up. Take me, I am missing tonight.

In the green of the sun, I know I have become unwilling to say that my love's been undone, so I come to you moon, I come. And I remember you. I remember your heart, beating against mine, but the moon has a song I can count on. The moon will sing with me tonight. Paint me what I'm missing tonight. I am a wide, wide world, and you are too narrow to see me. And I'm sick of trying to squeeze into view. Oh, I am a wide, wide world. How can I want you to love me when you cannot even hold me. That kind of love would harm me, but my arms are aching without you, and my world becomes smaller without you.

You are so lovely. I want you to love me, but you are afraid for your heart. You are afraid that I'll take it and rip it apart. Because you are a wide, wide world, but you are too tender to open. And you are so tired of hurting from love since your wide heart was broken. You say for me it's too easy. You say you just need some time.

But darling, I cannot just hold back the ocean. I can't choke the moon and the stars.

Erat lacinia

Look at my arms. Are they down at my sides? Are they hanging with no room to hold you? If they are there, it's because I am scared that wide open you won't let me know you. Because I am a wide, wide world and your heart is tender and broken. But I am not asking your sore heart to heal. I am asking if I can hold you. Sunlight falls like a fresh coat of paint.

My heart is singing. Red tiled roof and a fat black crow. Houses with chimneys all in a row. I see a bird fly high through the trees. Spring is a bird flying back home to me. Snow in patches on the grass. Icy sidewalks clean at last. I hear the church bells, distant and clear. Shouting a new song, spring time is here!

She knows her own strength but not how to use it. And she knows how to listen and she listens all the time to everyone who says they love her but not enough to listen, not enough to see her so she can sing out loud. When I lost my faith in love I had nothing to believe - only cold and clouds as far as I could see. But I heard your shadow singing, and it sang of another morning. Oh, you saved my life in the darkest hour. You were my phoenix fire, my winter flower. I put your record on, and the music turned me around. The world was spinning wild, but your peace was like a train, I stepped onboard, and I never was the same.

Oh, the pain rolled by the windows, and the wind began to call my name. I never thought I was a winner. I was far too weak and shy. But your voice reached in, touched something deep, it made me cry. I was a desert in a winter sky. Cause I was lost back then, could have slipped through the cracks, would have jumped that bridge, but your voice brought me back. Oh, you took me through the winter, and you helped me build a fire in the snow. Cause you saved my life in the darkest hour. I Know a Woman Radio Edit. I know a woman who feels every moment.

With sorrow and joy, she is blown by the wind. Her heart moves so quickly, it tires her to follow, but this world wasn't made for such sensitive things. And I want to sing her a song that will free her to feel what she feels without judgment or shame, all of her power right beside all her pain. And I know a mother who cannot remember.

She died to the dreams she once carried inside. And she raised a daughter who cannot forgive her for failing to lead her with wings into life. And I want to sing her a song that redeems her for all that she is that she hasn't become as she lived for her father then husband then son. And Eve, blessed mother of all of creation, they punished you when you reached out for the truth. And all of this violence we witness toward women is the shame we still carry for wanting the fruit.

And I want to sing her a song that will bring her into a world where her reach can be wide, free to take what she wants and to never be shy. We find ourselves weeping in small quiet moments, caught with no reason to feel so alone. They tell us our sadness is private depression, but our mother's submission is centuries old. And I want to sing you a song that receives you as you wake to a world where you're second to none, where your life is your song and your song will be sung.

Words on the Tip of My Tongue. In a dream, I knew that I belonged. I heard the night whisper into my ear. You are enough, child. You are good and strong, and there is always a place for you here. Do not mind the days that are dark and gray. You have light for the way when you live from your heart. Sing with me now. When I woke up, I lit a candle. I closed my eyes to remember the words. I am good and strong. When they come those days that are dark and gray, I have bright words to say on the tip of my tongue. I am good, and I have love to give.

I have words on the tip of my tongue. I am strong, and I know how to live. I am enough, and I will always be.

I do not mind the days that are dark and gray. I have light for the way when I live from your heart. How can I go home when home is not a place? Returning is never easy, and it is almost impossible. I belong to the pieces of my heart. So many pieces tear me apart. And where I am with a heart spread wide? I cannot choose one god or one self. My heart is stretched in pieces, and one of them is you. And I want to come. I want to come, but coming to you is like coming home. The wind will blow, and I will go. I will go home. How I remember what it was to love you.

And how I remember what it was to be loved by you. And I want to come to you. I want to come to you, but coming to you is like coming home. Nothing to hear but an empty sound. Snow is falling soft on a dirty ground. Just a cigarette and a coffee stain, dull gray light through the windowpane. Morning comes always the same. Time moves on, slow like a wheel, fast like a fire, past what you feel. Those days are gone. A bird flies by, a mourning dove. To where the sun rises like a big red ball, to where the clouds are clear, and I am here still standing tall. I used to be so beautiful and bright.

Never did what I wanted to. Never made my big debut. Thought I had just a little more time, but time left me behind. Cause time moves on, slow like a wheel, fast like a fire, past what you feel. I knew you when you told me all your secrets, and I kept them like a cancer: And they grew inside till I knew your every weakness. You began to keep your distance. I was a witness to your light.

But I needed you to love me because I saw the fire inside you. My defenses roll down like a solitary window. You just blow which way the wind blows. You find the hollow part of my heart. Was I too hard to love? Or did I love the hard way? Asking you to live true to your heart? Was it too much to ask? Did I forget to listen? Did I fail you in my mission to leave your stars in the sky? I walked down your old street, a slip of direction, and there you were in the middle of my mind.

It has little to do with who done who wrong. I tried hard to love you, to always understand. Then, honey, I figured out that one-way train would never end. You took all my troubles. You made them multiply. Well, shame on you for making think that I was crazy, and shame on you for making me feel like I was wrong. Well, go ahead mister. Go drown in your whiskey.

The religion of a sinner needs a saint nailed to the wall. Cause people will like you for all kinds of reasons. It has little to do with who done who right. Honey, get off a that train, better run for your life, for your life, for your life. When she was a child, she was free to run wild, and all through the fields she would ride.

At night she would lay down her blanket of hay, her pony asleep at her side. Sunshine and stars through the slats in the wood. Oh, if she could. She grew up with ease always aiming to please, and soon she was tall as the corn. The boys saw a prize, not the woman inside, and the jealous girls left her alone. A beautiful girl sits on top of the world, worshipped and envied and scorned. At night, she would pray, black and blue from the pain. Her beauty was sharp as a thorn. When she fell in love, he was reckless and young, and he kept her too close to his side. Afraid she would leave, his beautiful queen, he made her feel ugly inside.

Still she follows the moon as it steals through their room, remembering when she was small, when the fields were alive with the dreamer inside, and the dream was what made her feel tall. With heavy stones inside my shoes, I walk with my regret. Either be loved or live to tell the truth. Forgiving wind of love blow in, and hold me now.

Still I manage to carry it all. Blindly trying to keep your image unmaimed through my fall. How I long to set my anger free and end this martyrdom. I tried to tell you of my worth. You hushed me with words of your own. Oh, hold me now. Song For The Doorman. See the young man with the beard at the table: And over the faces that sit in her garden, she sings like a nightingale pouring the wine. Inside the light, there is nothing but music. He knows all the words and the stories behind them. And over the chatter of bottles and voices, he captures their nickels and dollars and dimes.

The carousel spins with its ribbons of memory. The suitcase is open, and melody flies. She catches his eyes as her song is now ending.

His fingers are drumming the table in time. And the pale yellow dress with the tiny white roses flickers like stars as she goes from the stage. Inside the light, there was nothing but music. Out in the dark, he will take her away. No right or wrong in what I feel. Each feeling brings a chance to heal. I walk the earth, and I live here too. When I say yes and I mean no, my path gets buried in the snow.

A word that brings the heart to light is worth the dark and sleepless night, and a melody that frees the shame is worth the journey through the pain. This road I walk is mine alone. When I lose my voice, I lose my way and the gifts that come with each new day. And I want to sing you a song that weeps with you for all that you lost as you tried to be good, living the life that a good woman should.

And I will not worship the gods of my fathers. I will call to my mother for her to provide. She carries the seasons inside her emotions. The wind is her song and the moon is her guide. Creation is waiting for us to employ it: The dreams of a woman are never indulgent. Still they teach us to harden the pains of our birth.

There are so many stars in the sky. There are so many ways to survive. When the night comes closing in, welcome the darkness, your most faithful friend. Loving means failing, and living means waiting. Pain will go on no matter how hard you try. The darkness can hold you, consume you, console you, forgive you, and show you that some hurt takes time. There are so many reasons to cry. I lost my light. My spirit cries out. My spirit cries loud. I am sadder in any church. I feel better in any crowd.

Awaken all you pilgrims. Love is calling from the choir. A city street, so filled with sound, knows it takes every voice to make the world go round. I lost my fire. My heart grows weary. My heart grows weak. I am sadder seeking heaven. I feel steadier on my feet. Love is calling from the garden. This town is too small I wish I were a stranger. Walking city streets, I am always in danger of a half felt hello coming around the corner. Well, I came here to live and to do what I am able.

I had dreams that were new and a heart that was faithful. Been wandering them clouds all day. Oh, they sell us dreams in this country. They tell us in America to be all we can be. But the only way it works is if some of us get hurt, and the rest of us keep running after everything they tell us that we need.

I see you staring through the window clutching tight that morning paper. But you stand with your umbrella like somehow it makes you better than the rest of us out walking in the rain. But you will never know them clouds. You will never know them clouds. I will lay me in them clouds all day. You and I when we were married, you drew a picture of New York. It was more than I could carry, so I threw it on the floor, but not before I tore to pieces everything I knew you loved, not before I prayed to Jesus for the strength from up above.

Whoever thought that this could happen? Whoever thought that this could be? You took a job down at the warehouse. We had a baby on the way. You moved right up into the office. You came home later everyday. And the children grew like whispers, soft and quietly disguised. No one could see it on the surface, but you could feel it from their eyes. We both pretended not to notice, and the days kept going by. Every night we prayed to Jesus while we told each other lies.

So you found somebody younger, somebody prettier than me. I hope she tells you what you want to hear. I hope she sees the man you see. Run along and get away now. Go tell the children that you love them. Try to believe the words you say. January came this winter. In his arms, the ground it hardens, and she forgets about the garden. Nothing now will grow here. January, you are colder than all the winters I have spent here.

Since I left home, will I ever get there? January fire, inspire me. So much shame in January. Pain made raw with the bitter weather and only clouds hold the hours together, clouds and memories. No, you wanted me. January, you are older than all the love that I have spent here.

A fiddler dreams in Arizona. A phoenix rises from the strings, hops a plane to Minnesota, waits for winter wings. January, you are bolder than all the lovers I have had, dear. Since I left home will I ever get there? Please, please break this bond with words. I have called you friend. In this moment I am angry. I know you carry your phone close to your skin. If I have not shown you love, if I have not given you understanding, if I have forgotten you in some important way, please find the words to say. If I can only be your friend until I let you down than I can only walk on pins and needles.

No mistakes with my emotions. Forgiveness lies not in silence. Telephone wires stretch my thoughts through the clouds. Yeah, the grass is growing still. The girl that I was and the friends that I had visit me now. They are the ghosts of the badlands.

Selected Poems Including ‘Requiem’

Way out here where the land meets the sky, sun breaks through, makes a city of lights. I am headed that direction. My ghosts will take flight. You let my little light show. Telephone wires stretch my voice through the clouds. In this big, big world I am free to sing out loud. The land knows what to keep, the sky weeps to make it proud. They never asked for water. They were a witness to me. I am deep in the canyon.

The river is dry. Oh, the river is dry. Change is hard, and it never hurries. No, it wears you down with its sound and its fury, and the still small voice, you could always follow has been lost in the echoes of the Colorado. I once had wings but they flew into feathers. They were torn right off my back. I lost my wings deep in the canyon. Now, the river is dry. It was a river that cut these scars, dug me down, carved me out. If you could travel these trails beside me, you would know how high my walls, and how deep my heart.

I am leaving Louisiana. But this highway rolls on forever, and I just might take it there. This road is not long enough to leave some things behind. How many miles, Lord, does it take one to say goodbye, to say goodbye? Those mighty waters were not forgiving. There was no Jesus to walk upon them. Heaven opened but did not save me, took my family and left me broken.

Sweet Redeemer, reckless Katrina, how you left me all undone. How many miles, Lord, does it take one to say goodbye, to say goodbye, to say goodbye, to say goodbye? I am leaving Louisiana with my eyes so filled with tears. I am an orphan holding your memory. No rising waters make it disappear. How many miles, Lord, does it take one you have forsaken to say goodbye? Oh hush now, little darling. Little darling, dry your eyes.

When we lay down in the garden there will be no tears to cry. Go to sleep now, little darling. Night is falling with the stars. Go and get them, little darling. Hide them close inside your heart. When you wake up little darling. There are bright lights, little darling, in the darkness of your mind.

Oh, the land that we belong to sends a cry out with the night. It is hurting, little darling. Please walk softly with your light. Please be careful, little darling, who you let inside your ears. If you listen without questions, you will follow life with fear. Is it dark inside your spirit? Are you far down in the well? Love will come and break the spell.

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