create joy

 Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river? Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air - An armful of white blossoms, A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies, Biting the air with its black beak? Did you hear it, fluting and whistling A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall Knifing down the black ledges? And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds - A white cross streaming across the sky, its feet Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river? And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything? And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for? And have you changed your life?

Everything I want to make poems that say right out, plainly, what I mean, that don’t go looking for the laces of elaboration, puffed sleeves.  I want to keep close and use often words like heavy, heart, joy, soon, and to cherish the question mark and her bold sister the dash.  I want to write with quiet hands.  I want to write while crossing the fields that are fresh with daises and everlasting and the ordinary grass.  I want to make poems while thinking of the bread of heaven and the cup of astonishment; let them be songs in which nothing is neglected, not a hope, not a promise.  I want to make poems that look into the earth and the heavens and see the unseeable.  I want them to honor both the heart of faith, and the light of the world; the gladness that says, without any words, everything.   Mary Oliver