Mary Ruefle: From SELECTED POEMS

The last AWP conference was in Seattle. Self roomed with poet Luisa Igloria. When self is with writers from another genre, she loves to pick their brains. So, one day, strolling through the Book Fair, she asked Luisa about her favorite poets, and since we just then happened to be passing a table selling Mary Ruefle, self stopped and purchased a copy of Mary Ruefle: Selected Poems. (Wave Books: Seattle and New York, 2010)

(Oh, did self ever mention to dear blog readers that she brought more poetry collections with her to Mendocino than fiction?)

Anyhoo, today self cracks open Ruefle’s Selected Poems (About time, too: the AWP conference was almost a year ago), and this is the very first poem:

Standing Furthest

All day I have done nothing.
To admonish me a few aspen
jostle beneath puny stars.
I suppose in a rainforest
a draft of hands brought in
the tubers for today, women
scratched their breasts in the sunlight
and smiled: someone somewhere
heard the gossip of exotic birds
and passed it on in the night,
to another, sleeping curled like an ear:
of all things standing furthest
from what is real, stand these trees
shaking with dispensable joy,
or those in their isolation
shading an extraordinary secret.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Serenity 2: The Garden Last Fall

Self’s garden is her calming, grounding space when she is at home in Redwood City, CA.

Here’s her garden as it looked last October:

Self's Garden Last October

Self’s Garden Last October

The Gate Leading to the Side Yard

The Gate Leading to the Side Yard

This small potted fuschia is on the front porch.

This small potted fuschia is on the front porch.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

SILAS MARNER Quote of the Day

Self is just loving this book, absolutely loving it. That it’s about a weaver, that’s one thing. That the weaver is also a healer, practiced in herbal lore, that’s another thing.

p. 21:

In this strange world, made a hopeless riddle to him, he might, if he had had a less intense nature, have sat weaving, weaving — looking towards the end of his pattern, or towards the end of his web, till he forgot the riddle, and everything else but the immediate sensations; but the money had come to mark off his weaving into periods, and the money not only grew, but it remained with him.

It is an incredible, incredible gift, to have the time and the solitude to devote herself to such a book, dear blog readers.

Late Afternoon on the Balcony

Late Afternoon on the Balcony

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

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