unask

 

walking on water

i'm walking on water
just talking with you
here by the harbour
in a room with a point of view
we're grateful to godot
for getting here on time

if this isn't nice, i don't know what love is
if this isn't nice, i don't know what is

i'm walking on water
just talking with you
here by the harbour
in a room with a point of view
we're going to the lighthouse
the weather will be fine

if this isn't nice, i don't know what love is
if this isn't nice, i don't know what is

Deirdre Burton. Listen to the song here

 

 

The daisies grow wild

The daisies grow wild
like popcorn.
They are God's promise to the field.
How happy I am, daisies, to love you.
How happy you are to be loved
and found magical, like a secret
from the sluggish field.
If all the world picked daisies
wars would end, the common cold would stop,
unemployment would end, the monetary market
would hold steady and no money would float.

They are so unexpected.
They are as good as salt.
If someone had brought them
to van Gogh's room daily
his ear would have stayed on.
I would like to think that no one would die anymore
if we all believed in daisies.

Anne Sexton

 

 

what love sees is true

St. John tells how, at Cana's wedding feast,
The water-pots poured wine in such amount
That by his sober count
There were a hundred gallons at the least.

It made no earthly sense, unless to show
How whatsoever love elects to bless
Brims to a sweet excess
That can without depletion overflow.

Which is to say that what love sees is true;
That this world's fullness is not made but found.
Life hungers to abound
And pour its plenty out for such as you.

Richard Wilbur

 

 

the meaning of May

IN the greenest growth of the Maytime,
I rode where the woods were wet,
Between the dawn and the daytime;
The spring was glad that we met.

You came, and the sun came after,
And the green grew golden above;
And the flag-flowers lightened with laughter,
And the meadow-sweet shook with love.

Your feet in the full-grown grasses
Moved soft as a weak wind blows;
You passed me as April passes,
With face made out of a rose.

And a bird overhead sang Follow,
And a bird to the right sang Here;
And the arch of the leaves was hollow,
And the meaning of May was clear.

A.C. Swinburne

 

 

fragmentary blue

Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?

Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)--
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.

Robert Frost

 

 

Time is the fire

Each minute bursts in the burning room,
The great globe reels in the solar fire,
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)
What am I now that I was then?
May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.

Delmore Schwartz

 

 

the grey cat

How I envy Mrs. Payne and her husband
Who felt unusual throbbing sensations
A year ago at the Washington Park Zoo
In Portland, Oregon, and knew they were eavesdropping
On the secret code of elephants;
Or Dr. David Gibo, who built a hang-glider
And soared with the monarch butterflies,
Breasting the blue thermals—

For the grey cat is calling, but not to me.
From out of his own wilderness
Only his black-banded banner of a tail
Signals where he is headed under the ghost-pale moon
That, silent and alone,
Continues to sail toward California
Between the yellow flower that opens in the morning
And the bleu lumière of afternoon.

Constance Urdang