When I see the sea once more
will the sea have seen or not seen me ?
Why do the waves ask me
the same questions I ask them ?
And why do they strike the rock
with so much wasted passion ?
Don’t they get tired of repeating
their declaration to the sand ?
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
not fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and its you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide)
and this is the wonder thats keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) geovisit();
e e cummings
I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
Without ever having felt sorry for itself.
— D.H. Lawrence
She keeps trying
to show me Orion,
pointing to his belt
in the night sky,
and I try to picture him
—but I’ve never been much
of a hunter, for food
or for love,
for that matter.
Now, Auden may be right,
poetry might make nothing happen,
but when she points
I think of Roethke,
how he wrote he measured time
by the swaying of a body
and I know
I measure something
older and far more still
by how three distant suns
on the tip of her finger.