tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48233514275974720112024-02-19T06:41:43.917-08:00Wiggling DiasporaFellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-5666121166058062182016-12-11T18:07:00.003-08:002016-12-11T18:09:54.049-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: #4b4f56; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Welcome home. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #4b4f56; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">To find your place in the poem we share is to find your place in the world that we share. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="color: #4b4f56; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #4b4f56; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Your card has a number. Share with us which card you received, and where you live. How about few words of your own that capture how reading those lines makes you feel? </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="color: #4b4f56; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #4b4f56; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We all could feel a little more, we all could do with a bit more empathy, mystery, and adventure. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #4b4f56; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Challenge: Share the bit of poem you received. Or, copy the lines yourself, and leave it for someone to find. </span><span style="color: #4b4f56; white-space: pre-wrap;">Take a photo the spot where your leave it for the next Wiggler to find, and share it with us here. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Below is the poem in its entirety: </span></span><br />
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Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-1001367267121629242013-03-30T10:04:00.001-07:002013-03-30T10:04:42.587-07:00<h2>
The End of March </h2>
Elizabeth Bishop<br />
<br />
<br />
It was cold and windy, scarcely the day<br />
to take a walk on that long beach.<br />
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible,<br />
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken,<br />
seabirds in ones or twos.<br />
The rackety, icy, offshore wind<br />
numbed our faces on one side;<br />
disrupted the formation<br />
of a lone flight of Canada geese;<br />
and blew back the low, inaudible rollers<br />
in upright, steely mist.<br />
<br />
The sky was darker than the water<br />
--<i>it </i> was the color of mutton-fat jade.<br />
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed<br />
a track of big dog-prints (so big<br />
they were more like like lion-prints). Then we came on<br />
lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string,<br />
looping up to the tide line, down to the water,<br />
over and over. Finally, they did end:<br />
a thick white snarl, man-size, awash,<br />
rising on every wave, a sodden ghost,<br />
falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost....<br />
a kite string? --But no kite.<br />
<br />
I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house,<br />
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my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box<br />
set up on pilings, shingled green,<br />
a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener<br />
(boiled with bicarbonate of soda?),<br />
protected from spring tides by a palisade<br />
of--are they railroad ties?<br />
(Many things about this place are dubious).<br />
I'd like to retire there and do <i>nothing</i>,<br />
or nothing much, forever in two bare rooms:<br />
<br />
look through binoculars,read boring books,<br />
old, long, long books, and write down useless notes,<br />
talk to myself, and, foggy days,<br />
watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.<br />
At night, a grog a l’américaine.<br />
I'd blaze it with a kitchen match<br />
and lovely diaphanous blue flame<br />
would waver, doubled in the window.<br />
There must be a stove, there <i>is</i> a chimney,<br />
askew, but braced with wires,<br />
and electricity possibly<br />
--at least, at the back another wire<br />
limply leashes the whole affair<br />
to something off behind the dunes.<br />
A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible.<br />
And that day the wind was much too cold<br />
even to get that far,<br />
and of course the house was boarded up.<br />
<br />
On the way back our faces froze on the other side.<br />
The sun came out for just a minute.<br />
For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand,<br />
the drab, damp, scattered stones<br />
were multi-colored,<br />
and all those high enough threw out long shadows,<br />
individual shadows, then pulled them in again.<br />
They could have been teasing the lion sun,<br />
except that now he was behind them<br />
--a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide,<br />
making those big, majestic paw-prints,<br />
who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.<br />
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<br />Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-74865865645062870052012-06-27T19:23:00.000-07:002012-06-27T19:23:21.578-07:00OneYour spirit is mingled with mine,<br />
as wine is with water;<br />
whatever touches you touches me.<br />
In all the stations of the soul you are I.<br />
<br />
Mansur al-Hallaj (Persia, 9th century)Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-42753623017839243172012-04-16T06:20:00.003-07:002012-04-16T06:28:40.163-07:00Today, like every other day, we wake up empty<br /><br />and frightened. Don't open the door to the study<br /><br />and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.<br /><br />Let the beauty we love be what we do.<br /><br />There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.<br /><br />Jalal ad-Din Muhammad RumiFellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-60883273413567597332011-12-18T20:46:00.000-08:002011-12-18T20:51:39.146-08:00Tree<br />Jane Hirshfield<br /><br />It is foolish<br />to let a young redwood<br />grow next to a house.<br /><br />Even in this<br />one lifetime,<br />you will have to choose.<br /><br />That great calm being,<br />this clutter of soup-pots and books--<br /><br />Already the first branch tips brush at the window.<br />Softly, calmly,<br />immensity taps at your life.Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-3122582721317560782011-12-04T16:23:00.000-08:002011-12-04T16:31:36.007-08:00From Wiggle 3-34Dogfish <div><br /></div><div>Some kind of relaxed and beautiful thing</div><div>kept flickering in with the tide</div><div>and looking around.</div><div>Black as a fisherman's boot, </div><div>with a white belly.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you asked for a picture I would have to draw a smile</div><div>under the perfectly round eyes and above the chin,</div><div>which was rough</div><div>as a thousand sharpened nails.</div><div><br /></div><div>And you know</div><div>what a smile means, </div><div>don't you? </div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted</div><div>the past to go away, I wanted</div><div>to leave it, like another country; I wanted</div><div>my life to close, and open</div><div>like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>where it falls </div><div>down over the rocks: an erosion, a discovery;</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I wanted</div><div>to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,</div><div>whoever I was, I was</div><div><br /></div><div>alive</div><div>for a little while.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was evening, and no longer summer. </div><div>Three small fish, I don't know what they were,</div><div>huddled in the highest ripples</div><div>as it came swimming in again, effortless, the whole body</div><div>one gesture, one black sleeve</div><div>that could fit easily around</div><div>the bones of three small fish.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also I wanted</div><div>to be able to love. And we all know </div><div>how that one goes, </div><div>don't we? </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Mary Oliver</div>Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-51762734529609517392011-12-04T16:12:00.000-08:002011-12-04T16:22:28.550-08:00From Wiggle 3-34Slowly<div><br /></div><div>The dogfish tore open the soft basins of water.</div><div><br /></div><div>You don't want to hear the story</div><div>of my life, and anyway</div><div>I don't want to tell it, I want to listen</div><div><br /></div><div>to the enormous waterfalls of the sun. </div><div><br /></div><div>And anyway it's the same old story</div><div>a few people just trying, </div><div>one way or another, </div><div>to survive. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mostly, I want to be kind. </div><div>And nobody, of course, is kind,</div><div>or mean,</div><div>for a simple reason. </div><div><br /></div><div>And nobody gets out of it, having to </div><div>swim through the fires to stay in </div><div>this world. </div><div><br /></div><div>And look! Look! Look! I think those little fish</div><div>better wake up and dash themselves away</div><div>from the hopeless future that is </div><div>bulging toward them. </div><div><br /></div><div>And probably,</div><div>if they don't waste time</div><div>looking for an easier world, </div><div><br /></div><div>they can do it. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Mary Oliver</div>Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-58613415899815353682011-11-26T12:59:00.000-08:002011-11-26T13:03:25.441-08:00From Wiggle 3-34who are you, little i<br />(five or six years old)<br />peering from some high<br /><br />window, at the gold<br /><br />of november sunset<br /><br />(and feeling: that if day<br />has to become night<br />this is a beautiful way)<br /><br />e.e. cummingsFellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-22362024363323760142011-11-07T05:45:00.000-08:002011-11-07T05:48:20.095-08:00Welcome Wigglers who wandered in by way of All Souls' Procession. You may elect to receive hand-prepared monthly-ish poetryart in the mail (imagine, real mail!) <i>or </i> follow us here. In either case, you have arrived--you are home.Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-60367459942776367312011-09-21T20:14:00.000-07:002011-09-21T20:27:49.981-07:00from Wiggle 3-15"In Cold Storm Light"<div><br /></div><div>In cold storm light</div><div>I watch the sandrock</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>canyon rim. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The wind is met</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> with the smell of pinon</div><div>The wind is cold </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> with the sound of juniper. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And then</div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>out of the thick ice sky </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> running swiftly</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> pounding</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> swirling above the treetops</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>the snow elk come,</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>moving, moving, </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> white song</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>storm wind in the branches.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And when the elk have passed</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> behind them</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>a crystal train of snowflakes </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>strands of mist</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>tangled in rock</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>and leaves. </div><div><br /></div><div>-Leslie Marmon Silko</div><div><br /></div>Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-19959520194515153712011-09-19T22:24:00.000-07:002011-09-20T19:41:56.839-07:00from "Song of the Universal"....<br />In spiral routes, by long detours (as a much-tacking ship upon the sea)<br />For it, the partial to the permanent flowing,<br />For it the real to the ideal tends.<br />....<br />For it, the mystic evolution,<br />Not the right only justified, what we call evil also justified.<br />....<br />Electric, antiseptic yet, cleaving, suffusing all,<br />only the good is universal.<br />....<br />Over the mountain-growth's disease and sorrow,<br />an uncaught bird is ever hovering, hovering,<br />high in the purer, happier air.<br />....<br />Oh the blest eyes, the happy hearts,<br />That see, that know the guiding thread so fine,<br />Along the mighty labyrinth.<br /><span style="WHITE-SPACE: pre" class="Apple-tab-span"></span>Walt WhitmanFellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-72447622619365636242011-09-19T22:04:00.000-07:002011-09-20T19:42:42.610-07:00"All Is Truth"<span class="Apple-style-span">O ME, man of slack faith so long! </span><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Standing aloof--denying portions so long; </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Only aware to-day of compact, all-diffused truth; </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Discovering to-day there is no lie, or form of lie, and can be none, </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">but grows as inevitably upon itself as the truth does upon </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">itself,</span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Or as any law of the earth, or any natural production of the earth </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">does. </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">(This is curious, and may not be realized immediately--But it must be </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">realized; </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with the rest, </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">And that the universe does.)</span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Where has fail'd a perfect return, indifferent of lies or the truth? </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in the spirit of man? </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">or in the meat and blood? </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Meditating among liars, and retreating sternly into myself, I see</span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">that there are really no liars or lies after all, </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">And that nothing fails its perfect return--And that what are called </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">lies are perfect returns,</span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">And that each thing exactly represents itself, and what has preceded </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">it,</span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Ant that the truth includes all, and is compact, just as much as </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">space is compact,<br />And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of the truth--but</span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">that all is truth without exception; </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see or am, </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">And sing and laugh, and deny nothing. </span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="WHITE-SPACE: pre" class="Apple-tab-span"></span>Walt Whitman</span></div>Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-21693745796898079132011-09-19T21:56:00.000-07:002011-09-20T19:42:58.314-07:00from "Not a Day on Any Calendar"This is not a day for asking questions, <br /><div>not a day on any calendar. </div><br /><div>This day is conscious of itself. </div><br /><div>Today is a lover, bread, and gentleness,</div><br /><div>more manifest than saying can say. </div><br /><div>Thoughts take form with words, </div><br /><div>but this daylight is beyond and before </div><br /><div>thinking and imagining. </div><br /><div><span style="WHITE-SPACE: pre" class="Apple-tab-span"></span>Rumi</div>Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-36591889949657956132011-09-19T21:20:00.000-07:002011-09-19T21:23:32.922-07:00Want to Wiggle?Email me with your mailing address and zip. The price of admission? Suggest a poet, artist, musician, or other gift to disperse. What moves you?Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4823351427597472011.post-23125795631539920362011-09-19T21:17:00.000-07:002011-09-19T21:27:02.424-07:00Welcome HomeAre you part of the Wiggling Diaspora? This is your cyberhome, more manifest than saying can say. Share what you will!Fellow Wigglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05070360172705183892noreply@blogger.com0