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Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed to much;
I lived on air
That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of - was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Down hill at dusk?
I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they're gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.
I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.
Now no joy but lacks salt
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love.
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove
When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard in grass and Sand,
The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.

-Robert Frost


I found this poem when looking through a long un-touched pile of books and papers this evening. This summer when B and I were on vacation in the White Mountains we went to the Frost Place in Franconia. There is a little "poetry walk" through the woods with various Frost works printed on plywood and nailed to trees. This one was my favorite, and very unlike anything else I had read by him. I scribbled down the title and found it on the internet when I got home . . . I've yet to find it in a book.


Jan. 24th, 2001 08:49 am
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I had a great dance class last night - since I skipped class last week I had a bit of confusion catching up to things (not learning one step, and not doing the others for two weeks) but overall I had a lot of fun. The costume orders have gone in and I actually really like them this year. The ballet is a pink knee length skirt with a shorter burgandy velvet overskirt, burgandy velvet bodice w/ silver beading and little burgandy velvet 'armband-like' things. Our tap costume is a yellow dress with silver detailing - a 1930's swing style design (or, think Judy Garland). I'm really looking forward to the show this year, I'm not going to get caught up in my teacher's perfection - I'll just enjoy it for me.

After dancing I spent some time with B at our respective computers and after making tea for the both of us we sat down to read for a while. I've been reading some stories from Charles de Lint's "Moonlight & Vines" to him since he's been sick. I just love this man's writing - I wish I had more time to read through the piles of bookes I've collected over the years. In particular last night I enjoyed a poem in one of the stories:

"The artist closed her book,
returning it to the shelf
that stored the other
stories of her life.
When she looked up,
there were no riddles
in here gaze;
only knowing.

Don't make of us
more than we are
she said.
We hold no great secret
except this:
We know that
all endeavor is art
when rendered with conviction.
The simple beauty
of the everyday
strikes chords
as stirring as
oil on canvas,
finger on string,
the bour'ee in
perfect demi-pointe.

The difference is
we consider it art.

The difference is
we consider

When it consumes us,
what consumes us,
is art:
an invisible city
we visit with our dreams

we are laden down with
the baggage of
our journeys,
and somewhere,
in a steamer trunk
or a carry-on,
we carry souvenirs:
messages from beyond.

Some are merely
more opaque
than others."


I'm hoping to be able to spend more time relaxing, more time reading and hanging out with B, the pets and my friends. I want to experience things again like I did when I allowed myself the time to do it . . . why is it that we make things so crazy for ourselves?


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