the peonies are getting ready to break my heart

Dear Friend,

Lately I've been getting to know the poetry of Mary Oliver. I'm really enjoying what I've found so far.

Today I was very excited to discover she wrote a poem about my favorite flower!

Peonies 
by Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
   to break my heart
     as the sun rises,
        as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open--
   pools of lace,
      white and pink--
       and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
    into the curls,
      craving the sweet sap,
        taking it away

to their dark, underground cities--
   and all day
      under the shifty wind,
       as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
   and tip their fragrance to the air,
     and rise,
       their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
    gladly and lightly,
      and there it is again--
        beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
    Do you love this world?
      Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
       Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
   and softly,
      and exclaiming of their dearness,
       fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
    their eagerness
      to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
        nothing, forever?






From New and Selected Poems (Beacon Press) 

And to answer, I would say -- Yes. Yes, I do.

Taking pictures of my flowers before they become "nothing forever" helps ease the loss.  

My peonies will be blooming soon!

Peace & Joy,

Adriana

Washed Ashore: A Guest Post by Sheena Señara

Dear Friend,

Today I'm grateful to host my friend Sheena Señara who blogs from the Philippines at Tabulyogang. I first met Sheena through my comments section. Her cheerful messages here are always a delight. 

Recently when I saw on the news that Sheena's country was about to be pounded by Super-Typhoon Haiyan, I contacted her via email. We stayed in touch over a period of days as she described some of what she was experiencing to me. 

Sheena wrote the following poem in response to the disaster. I'm deeply honored that she has allowed me to post it for you today. 

image source: Tabulyogang

Waves angry,

Washed ashore bottles, and slippers, and toys, and weeds

What delight to see them come here?

Who could have owned these washed up things?

That was of long ago
When other areas were terribly far
And far meant messages sent were received for the next 2-3 days
Where mails were a delight, and not too slow

Now these washed up things meant somebody's terrible loss.
Not that story of a little boy losing his slipper in the sea
Decided to throw the other one hoping for someone to find all two

There is no little boy who owns these washed up things.
These washed up things are not my delight no more.
These washed up things are memories
Memories crying in the dark; wet and cannot breath.

* * *

For the little girl who takes delight in washed up things after every storm, and for the big girl who remembers that little girl.

My name is Sheena Señara. I'm a student. I love writing poems -- especially when I'm overwhelmed with emotions. My nickname's Gang-gang, my parents call me Tabulyo/tabulyogang. 

Let us continue to be in prayer for those affected by the disaster. If you wish to make a donation, Sheena recommends Unicef.  Visit Sheena at Tabulyogang and follow her on Twitter @tabulyo

Ascending : Guest Post By Jeannie Prinsen

Dear Friend,

I'm delighted to share a poem with you today! It was written by my friend Jeannie Prinsen. Jeannie is an online writing instructor at Queen's University. She shares many insightful reflections on her blog Little House on the Circle. 

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The experience that inspired this poem took place a couple of years ago in Prince Edward Island (where I was born and where my family still goes every summer).  We  had arrived at my parents' place earlier that day, and I was taking an evening walk.  There is something about the quiet of the surroundings and the beauty of the sky there, especially at sunset, that always makes me feel peaceful.  But the cloud of starlings -- something I don't think I'd ever seen before -- added a different dimension to this walk. I was fascinated by their swooping formations and the way they crowded into a tree, chattering loudly, and then suddenly lifted off as one.  This poem tries to capture the sight, sound, and feeling of that experience.

ascending

shape-shifting black

ellipses thrill the evening sky

a thousand starlings

    swirl

             swoop

                      dive

then settle

turning a sun-kindled apple tree

into a quivering

dappling

murmur

ation

each leaf and twig

pulsing with their over

lapping voices

suddenly

they rise in a shush of underlit wings

like flakes 

of fire

showering

upward

like fallen stars returning

to heaven

and I watch

wistful

wondering

how it would feel

to fly

my own wings touched with the light

of day's golden 

end

In case you missed it: Jeannie and I did another photo/poem collaboration earlier this year. You can read it here.

poem cJeannie Prinsen 2013
please do not reproduce without author permission                                                       

The Choice

Today I'm thrilled to have a guest post by Jeannie Prinsen, who blogs at Little House on the Circle. I've come to know Jeannie through the comments section at Tim Fall's blog. Her hopeful thoughts and wise insights are always uplifting. Jeannie is an online writing instructor/tutor at Queen's University. A few days ago I dropped by her place where she shared this poem with me. It struck a chord since very recently I was beckoned by "Narnian whiteness"! I felt her poem would compliment the pictures I took while hiking near my home through Narnia last week. It also inspired a theme for my goals this year: "plunging forth with joy". 

The Choice

I stood before the path into the woods.

Its Narnian whiteness beckoned to me, yet

being loath to spoil the smooth expanse of snow

and knowing night was falling dark and fast,

I turned and said, "Another day will do."

A small decision, hardly thought of till

an early thaw comes, and the snowy trails

turn muddy brown -- and I, with wistfulness,

recall that hushed midwinter moment when

I stood before the path into the woods.

I see it still: the long inverted V

of that straight road into the forest deep,

the fenceposts frosted thick with powered snow.

Bewitching promise of an unwalked trail!

Its Narnian whiteness beckons to me yet.

In retrospect my reasons seem so slight:
excuses not to dare. Had evening come,
my footprints would have easily led me back
(assuming I had wanted to return).
Being loath to spoil the smooth expanse of snow?

That now seems an especially foolish thought.
Surely the fresh and untouched path desired
that some exploring foot, some questing heart,
would break the surface, plunging forth with joy.
Now, knowing night is falling dark and fast,

I vow to take the path. So what if that
was this year's final snowfall? Then I'll wait
till winter comes again and draws me in
to that charmed world. I'll go, brave-souled and glad,
not turn and say, "Another day will do."

c Jeannie Prinsen 2011
please do not share or reproduce without author permission

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Proof I was really in Narnia.

More proof.