written by Adrienne RichThis is the grass your feet are planted on.
You paint it orange or you sing it green,
But you have never found
A way to make the grass mean what you mean.
A cloud can be whatever you intend:
Ostrich or leaning tower or staring eye.
But you have never found
A cloud sufficient to express the sky.
Get out there with your splendid expertise;
Raymond who cuts the meadow does not less.
Inhuman nature says:
Inhuman patience is the true success.
Human impatience trips you as you run;
Stand still and you must lie.
It is the grass that cuts the mower down;
It is the cloud that swallows up the sky.
Adrienne Rich
written by Adrienne Rich, published on Fri 01.18.2008 at 13:12
She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
written by Adrienne Rich, published on Thu 01.10.2008 at 01:59
Thinking of Caroline Herschel, 1750-1848, Astronomer, Sister of William; and Others
A woman in the shape of a monster
written by Adrienne Rich, published on Sun 11.25.2007 at 20:54
Talking of poetry, hauling the books
arm-full to the table where the heads
bend or gaze upward, listening, reading aloud,
written by Adrienne Rich, published on Thu 10.25.2007 at 21:42
My three sisters are sitting
on rocks of black obsidian.
For the first time, in this light, I can see who they are.
written by Adrienne Rich, published on Thu 08.09.2007 at 09:38
A life hauls itself uphill
through hoar-mist steaming
the sun's tongue licking
leaf upon leaf into stricken liquid
written by Adrienne Rich, published on Sat 07.14.2007 at 19:49
The world's
not wanton
only wild and wavering
I wanted to choose words that even you
would have to be changed by