I Learned That Her Name Was Proverb: a poem by Denise Levertov

And the secret names

of all we meet who led us deeper

into our labyrinth

of valleys and mountains, twisting valleys

and steeper mountains-

their hidden names are always,

like Proverb, promises:

Rune, Omen, Fable, Parable,

those we meet for only

one crucial moment, gaze to gaze,

or for years Know and don’t recognize

 

but of whom later a word

sings back to us

as if from high among leaves,

still near beyond sight

 

drawing us from tree to tree

towards the time and the unknown place

where we shall know

what it is to arrive.

 

Prayer Sticks

Several weeks ago I was on Assateague Island on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. Two days we walked the beach. On the second day the beach was littered with small cedar sticks. My friend and I began to pick up these sticks, each more beautiful than the last: worn smooth by water and sand. We collected as many as we could and placed them in the trunk of the car.

Weeks before I had been reading about Prayer sticks and looking at images of Prayer sticks from different cultures, mainly Native American and Buddhist. I began to imagine the making of my own prayer sticks using the materials around me from the ocean: Gull feathers, twine, sea urchins, an occasional shell. And what prayers will be said when I place them in the dirt?

Knitting Circle

This month I attended a Knitting Cicle led by Melanie Reuter. She not only taught some of us how to knit she offered her philosophy and theology of knitting.

After the first meeting I bought yarn that soothed my eye and felt good to my touch. I bought needles that were smooth and slender. I liked how they felt. I even liked how they looked in an old basket I pulled out from under the sink.

Changing Temperatures

Today  the temperature will rise to record heat with a prediction of thirty degrees cooler tonight. I sense the coming of coolness in the way the light shines through my window this afternoon. 

Twice in the last twenty-four hours I have had the opportunity to discuss the act of writing with people who want to write. I received a rejection letter from a literary journal I love and respect and an email inviting me to send in my  nonfiction manuscript. On Tuesday I wrote the beginnings of a new poem. I’m back to moving between the reading of four, no five books. I marked off appointments on my work calender to reserve day next week for reading and writing.

My friend and critic, Miriam, says I frequently use the word “enter” in my poems. I can’t help myself. I enter, begin and begin.