Truth

This is the blessing for the first garden tomato:
Those green boxes of tasteless acid the store
sells in January, those red things with the savor
of wet chalk, they mock your fragrant name.
How fat and sweet you are weighing down my palm,
warm as the flank of a cow in the sun.
You are the savor of summer in a thin red skin.

Marge Piercy, from “The Art of Blessing the Day” in The Art of Blessing the Day: Poems with a Jewish Theme. © Knopf, 1999.


Notes: Photo – Katharine Hanna with Organic vine-ripened tomatoes. Poem – A Year of Being Here

I said, I like my life.

jump-to-touch-the-sky

I said, I like my life. If I
have to give it back, if they
take it from me, let me
not feel I wasted any, let me
not feel…that I forgot
to give what I held in my hands,
that I forgot to do some little
piece of the work that wanted
to come through…

~ Marge Piercy,  excerpt from “If They Come in the Night”, Circles on the Water: Selected Poems


Notes: Poem – Thank you Beth at Alive on all Channels, Photo: Adeline Spengler, The Jump Touch the Sky, 2013 (via newthom)

 

It’s been a long day

black and white

I feel my weakness summoning me
like a bed of soft grey ashes
I might crawl into.

Marge Piercy, from “The longest night,” Moon is Always Female.


Notes:

Work: Pull like water buffalo

black and white,photography

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

~ Marge Piercy, To Be Of Use


Notes:

%d bloggers like this: