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A Few Moments

Herself, a day, an hour ago; and herself now.  For we have every one of us felt how a very few minutes of the months and years called life, will sometimes suffice to place all time past and future in an entirely new light; will make us see the vanity or the criminality of the by-gone, and so change the aspect of the coming time that we look with loathing on the very thing we have most desired.  A few moments may change our character for life, by giving a totally different direction to our aims and energies.

~ From Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell, 1848

 

“The Seamstress” by Joseph DeCamp, 1916

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,

Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,

Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between

Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.

 

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration

Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze

Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,

Faces of people streaming across my gaze.

 

And I, what fountain of fire am I among

This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed

About like a shadow buffeted in the throng

Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.

 

                                                                ~ D. H. Lawrence

 

“Spring in Gościeradz” by Leon Wyczółkowski, 1933

RUMINATE Magazine is accepting up to two previously unpublished poems per entry of no more than forty lines each for the 2017 Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize through midnight on May 15.  A blind panel of readers will select fifteen poems as finalists, and acclaimed poet Shane McCrae will select the winning entry.  A prize of $1,500 will be awarded to the first place winner, and $200 will be awarded to the second place winner.  The entry fee is $20 and includes a copy of the magazine.

RUMINATE is a quarterly Christian literary and arts journal of short stories, poetry, creative nonfiction, and visual art “that speaks to the existence of our daily lives while nudging us toward a greater hope.”  For more information or to submit, visit the website at https://www.ruminatemagazine.com/pages/poetry-prize.

Good luck!

 

Blizzard

Snow:

years of anger following

hours that float idly down –

the blizzard

drifts its weight

deeper and deeper for three days

or sixty years, eh? Then

the sun! a clutter of

yellow and blue flakes –

Hairy looking trees stand out

in long alleys

over a wild solitude.

The man turns and there –

his solitary track stretched out

upon the world.

 

~ William Carlos Williams

 

Posted with warm thoughts to all my friends and colleagues on the East Coast.

 

Richard Dorrell, courtesy of the Creative Commons Attribution license

End of Winter

Over the still world, a bird calls

waking solitary among black boughs.

 

You wanted to be born; I let you be born.

When has my grief ever gotten

in the way of your pleasure?

 

Plunging ahead

into the dark and light at the same time

eager for sensation

 

as though you were some new thing, wanting

to express yourselves

 

all brilliance, all vivacity

 

never thinking

this would cost you anything,

never imagining the sound of my voice

as anything but part of you—

 

you won’t hear it in the other world,

not clearly again,

not in birdcall or human cry,

 

not the clear sound, only

persistent echoing

in all sound that means good-bye, good-bye—

 

the one continuous line

that binds us to each other.

 

                            ~ Louise Glück

 

Simon Glücklich Frühlingslied (1863-1943)

March

The stormy March has come at last,

With winds and clouds and changing skies;

I hear the rushing of the blast

That through the snowy valley flies.

 

~ William Cullen Bryant

 

"Snowy Landscape" by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1870-1875

“Snowy Landscape” by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1870-1875

Pain—has an Element of Blank—

It cannot recollect

When it begun—Or if there were

A time when it was not—

 

It has no Future—but itself—

It’s Infinite contain

It’s Past—enlightened to perceive

New Periods—Of Pain.

 

~ Emily Dickinson

 

Marcel Rieder (1862-1942)

Marcel Rieder (1862-1942)

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