In my Commonplace...
Black Rook in Rainy Weather
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers
in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly
A certain minor light may still
Out of a kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects
now and then-
Thus hallowing an interval
By bestowing largess, honor,
One might say love. At any rate,
I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape);
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know
that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you dare to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
Sylvia Plath, Watch For the Light Readings for Advent and Christmas
12/3/2011 02:01:58 am
Great poem ~~ thanks.
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A wee explanation: this website was created as a way to amplify the daily surprise of seeing glory in one small life. The notebook entries represented here are all selected from things actually lived and noted on paper in an effort to live the full life British educator Charlotte Mason so ably championed.
Book Of Centuries
Book Of Firsts