Sublime

The nature poem reminds me of when I was younger and used to dance and just celebrate being alive outside at night in my Zen Garden. The same joy I felt in the poem. The joy of being alive and part of the earth, the realization of that connectedness. Nicole Kristine Eidsvik, Private Journals

“That physical act is what makes a poem come alive,” he says. “And unlike other writing, a poem has a physical shape, a physical dimension on the page. It does not have the block arrangement of prose.”

I am grateful for the tug of the day that gets us out of bed and propels us into our lives and responsibilities; memory can be a weight on that. And yet, in it floods, brought willfully, or brought on by a glimpse, a glance, a scent, a sound. One note: the timbre of his voice.

Soon this short verse sprang free from renga and began to articulate aesthetic qualities, such as a sense of beautiful aloneness (sabishisa) and restrained elegance (furyu).

This body lasts about as long as a bubble may as well let it go things don’t often go as we wish who can step back doesn’t worry we blossom and fade like flowers we gather and part like clouds I stopped thinking about the world a long time ago relaxing all day in a teetering hut

if we could only do what we do unhindered by attachments and see what we do unobstructed by delusions.

What is the effort that daffodils make in order to bloom?

I understood immediately that certain things—attention, great energy, total concentration, tenderness, risk, beauty—were elements of poetry. And I understood that these elements did not grow as grass grows from a seed, naturally and unstoppably, but rather were somehow gathered and discovered by the poet, and placed inside the poem. —Mary Oliver