Extra Time and Poetry

The organization I work for hosts a staff retreat every fall to re-orient all staff members to the mission of the agency, to each other and to offer opportunities for staff who don’t interact on a day-to-day basis to see how the work we all do is interconnected. It’s intended to be informative, refreshing and productive. I think our management team did a good job with all of that. Plus, they let us leave earlier than we would on any regular day of work– I was home by 3:00pm!

With two additional, unexpected hours to my day and so much to catch up on (including sleep), I have to use this time well. In the past few weeks, I have had visitors from out of town, gone to two weddings (one of which was my sister’s, which required a little more responsibility than simply showing up), let my room get out of control and completely ignored my graduate school application essays. I have also developed a slight, but constant itch on my arms and legs. That’s a lot for October.

I have already done laundry (my sheets and towels, in the hopes that it was a roommate’s stray dryer sheet that is causing my itchiness) and gone grocery shopping. I fully intend to also spend a good chunk of time revisiting my essays.

But right now, I want to take some time for poetry, because generally, there is a lack of time for poetry. I would like to share one of my favorite poems from one of my favorite poets. (Can you hear me clear my throat?)

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
ee cummings
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Categories: Uncategorized | 1 Comment

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One thought on “Extra Time and Poetry

  1. Mary

    I heard you clear your throat – did you hear me sigh at the end of that lovely poem? 🙂

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