Salt & Sand

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Take me to the ocean
Where the air expanse is wide
Your troubles will seem smaller
Where the sun and surf collide

Yes take me to the ocean
It’s where I find my fresh start
Because there’s salt inside my veins
And sand inside my heart

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Wild Geese

This poem spoke to me the other day, and I wanted to share it with you. I think it provides some perspective in our otherwise crazy world:

Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Mary Oliver

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The Old Violin

the old violinAt work today we have our board member here for their annual board meeting (where I assume everyone is just sitting around bored, but, more on my imagination later), and our head board member Joe White shared this poem. It was so touching and moving that I wanted to share it with you. The drawing was hand sketched by a friend of his, and getting to see this beautiful art accompanied with the moving words of the poem just about made up for us having to dress professional today and skip dress-down Friday. Mostly. Ok, it did. Ok, just read the poem.

‘Twas battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.

“What am I bid, good people”, he cried,
“Who starts the bidding for me?”
“One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?”
“Two dollars, who makes it three?”
“Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,”

But, No,
From the room far back a gray bearded man
Came forward and picked up the bow,
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet
As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said “What now am I bid for this old violin?”
As he held it aloft with its’ bow.

“One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?”
“Two thousand, Who makes it three?”
“Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone”, said he.

The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
“We just don’t understand.”
“What changed its’ worth?”
Swift came the reply.
“The Touch of the Masters Hand.”

“And many a man with life out of tune
All battered and bruised with hardship
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters’ Hand.

– by Myra Brooks Welch

 

Enjoy the day, lovelies.

xo. Brie

Poetry Feature: W. B. Yeats

poetry 1I’ve never understood poetry very well, nor been able to write it. Recently however, I’ve been pushing myself to read more and more of it and to explore great past poets who contributed to the beauty and richness of poetic literature. And so, darling readers, you’re coming with me! This will be a new section of the blog where I highlight poems that touched me, and that I think will touch you too. Let’s revel in the beauty and mystery together, shall we?

xo. Brie

A Man Young And Old: I. First Love

Though nurtured like the sailing moon
In beauty’s murderous brood,
She walked awhile and blushed awhile
And on my pathway stood
Until I thought her body bore
A heart of flesh and blood.

But since I laid a hand thereon
And found a heart of stone
I have attempted many things
And not a thing is done,
For every hand is lunatic
That travels on the moon.

She smiled and that transfigured me
And left me but a lout,
Maundering here, and maundering there,
Emptier of thought
Than the heavenly circuit of its stars
When the moon sails out.

Like the moon her kindness is,
If kindness I may call
What no comprehension in’t,
But is the same for all
As though my sorrow were a scene
Upon a pointed wall

So like a bit of stone I lie,
Under a broken tree
I could recover if I shreiked
My heart’s agony
To passing bird, but I am dumb
From human dignity

A mermaid found a swimming lad
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown

– William Butler Yeats