Thursday, September 30, 2010

THE POETS OF OLD CHINA
MARY OLIVER

Wherever I am, the world comes with me.
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the poets of old China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.



I tried to get away this week, to work on poems and stuff. I have a small apartment all to myself, where the only part of the world I let in are the cars that pass by and my friends’ e-mails. It ended up I needed to week to know how my world is affecting me. I now find myself free to write poetry and am processing incidents that have happened to me in the past ten years that will affect the next few weeks of decisions. They are being processed in an orderly fashion.

I don’t want to shut out the world all the time, but a few more days to write poetry and explore these feelings will be nice.

I’m not ready to face work.

3 comments:

  1. Like your image of the sky, there's the thinnest patch of blue, peeking through...

    ReplyDelete