April 28, 2015

The Mountain- Elizabeth Bishop

So for whatever reason I just spent half an hour planning out a bucket list. Unfortunately I only have nine things on my list so far. See, when there's something I want to do I find a way to do it as soon as possible. And I don't want to have a bucket list full of impossible things that I don't actually plan on doing. But, I do have a sort of beginning list now, so maybe it'll be a good reminder of things I should do?

While browsing Pinterest for Bucket List ideas, however, I was surprised at how many of the things I had already done. I don't mean to sound like I'm bragging. I've just had such an incredible, blessed life. I ought to make a list of Bucket List Worthy Things I've Already Gotten to Do

Anyway, poems aren't working out so well today. That poetry muse seems to have abandoned me, and the novel muse hasn't come back. I feel abandoned by my words.

So here is a poem by someone who is not me:
 The Mountain by Elizabeth Bishop

At evening, something behind me.
I start for a second, I blench,
or staggeringly halt and burn.
I do not know my age.

In the morning it is different.
An open book confronts me,
too close to read in comfort.
Tell me how old I am.

And then the valleys stuff
inpenetrable mists
like cotton in my ears.
I do not know my age.

I do not mean to complain.
They say it is my fault.
Nobody tells me anything.
Tell me how old I am.

The deepest demarcation
can slowly spread and sink
like any blurred tattoo.
I do not know my age.

Shadows fall down; lights climb.
Clambering lights, oh children!
you never stay long enough.
Tell me how old I am.

Stone wings have sifted here
with feathers hardening feathers.
The claws are lost somewhere.
I do not know my age.

I am growing deaf. Bird-calls
dribble and the waterfalls
go unwiped. What is my age?
Tell me how old I am.

Let the moon go hang,
the stars go fly their kites.
I want to know my age.
Tell me how old I am.

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