Soon we will be leaving the year of the tiger and entering the year of the rabbit. The rabbit, symbol of endurance and an uncanny wisdom. To inspire you for your rabbit year, here is Joseph Pintauro’s beautiful book, the Rabbit Box. We have a copy of this one at home, and it always thrills me and frightens me.."All of the daring to live that you were not afraid of, that is my name, I am the rabbit."
Images with thanks via the snail and cyclops and booklust
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Weatherby George Dupree
Care of his Mother,
Though he was only three.
Said to his Mother,
"Mother," he said, said he;
"You must never go down to the end of the town
If you don't go down with me."
Put on a golden gown,
Drove to the end of the town.
Said to herself, said she:
"I can get right down to the end of the town and
be back in time for tea."
Put up a notice
"LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED!
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID.
QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD,
SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN TO THE END OF
THE TOWN - FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD!
-Excerpt from A.A. Milne's "Disobedience"
I've spent the past week watching my little son and his friend with this poem rattling about in my head. It's quite accurate, as you may know, little boys do keep close track of their mothers. I found myself wondering, how had it been decided that I was the one who needed to be watched closely, rather than the other way around?
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Last night when the December moon was closer to the Earth than it had been in years, huge on the horizon, blazing hills and craters, I saw it too late, too high in the sky. Still, I could almost count the peaks that held the sun.
Tonight, after slicing red potatoes, yams, carrots, onions, and a garlic into a base of chicken broth; after shaking a delicate rain of basil and tarragon onto the surface and stirring those sweet spices in - while the soup simmered, I threw on a jacket over my nightclothes and ran out to look for the moon. My slippered feet were cold as I searched the sky, wanting to raise my face into white light.
But there was no moon, no glow over the apartment roofs to say it was rising, so I came back in and stirred my soup, raising the ladle to my lips to taste again and again the dark fruits of the Earth.
moon-seeking soup -
my own face reflected
in the broth.
Penny Harper "Moon Seeking Soup"
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose - Issue 1. Summer 2009
Image of and via anabotezatu
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
When Hades decided he loved this girl
he built for her a duplicate of earth,
everything the same, down to the meadow,
but with a bed added.
Everything the same, including sunlight,
because it would be hard on a young girl
to go so quickly from bright light to utter darkness
Gradually, he thought, he'd introduce the night,
first as the shadows of fluttering leaves.
Then moon, then stars. Then no moon, no stars.
Let Persephone get used to it slowly.
In the end, he thought, she'd find it comforting.
A replica of earth
except there was love here.
Doesn't everyone want love?
He waited many years,
building a world, watching
Persephone in the meadow.
Persephone, a smeller, a taster.
If you have one appetite, he thought,
you have them all.
Doesn't everyone want to feel in the night
the beloved body, compass, polestar,
to hear the quiet breathing that says
I am alive, that means also
you are alive, because you hear me,
you are here with me. And when one turns,
the other turns—
That's what he felt, the lord of darkness,
looking at the world he had
constructed for Persephone. It never crossed his mind
that there'd be no more smelling here,
certainly no more eating.
Guilt? Terror? The fear of love?
These things he couldn't imagine;
no lover ever imagines them.
He dreams, he wonders what to call this place.
First he thinks: The New Hell. Then: The Garden.
In the end, he decides to name it
A soft light rising above the level meadow,
behind the bed. He takes her in his arms.
He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you
but he thinks
this is a lie, so he says in the end
you're dead, nothing can hurt you
which seems to him
a more promising beginning, more true.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Through winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter's best of all;
And after that there's nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come ---
Nor know that what disturbs our blood
Is but our longing for the tomb.
W.B. Yeats "The Wheel"
Monday, December 6, 2010
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.
I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—
which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
-Mary Oliver "White Eyes"