Goldenrod, by Maggie Smith
I’m no botanist. If you’re the color of sulfur
and growing at the roadside, you’re goldenrod.
You don’t care what I call you, whatever
you were born as. You don’t know your own name.
But driving near Peoria, the sky pink-orange,
the sun bobbing at the horizon, I see everything
is what it is, exactly, in spite of the words I use:
black cows, barns falling in on themselves, you.
Dear flowers born with a highway view,
forgive me if I’ve mistaken you. Goldenrod,
whatever your name is, you are with your own kind.
Look—the meadow is a mirror, full of you,
your reflection repeating. Whatever you are,
I see you, wild yellow, and I would let you name me.
Thanks to Alison for finding and sharing these beautiful poems.
For more information on Maggie Smith, please click here.
– Mary Oliver
All day I have been pining for the past.
That’s when the big dog, Luke, breathed at my side.
Then she dashed away then she returned
in and out of the swales, in and out of the creeks,
her dark eyes snapping.
Then she broke, slowly,
in the rising arc of a fever.
And now she’s nothing
except for mornings when I take a handful of words
and throw them into the air
so that she dashes up again out of the darkness,
this is the world.
Thank you Alison, for curating and sharing these lovely poems.
For more information on Mary Oliver, please click here.
Hi everyone and especially Vancouverites,
Elephanatics is once again hosting the Global March for Elephants and Rhinos on September 30th | 12:00 pm to 1:30 pm at Creekside Park |1455 Quebec Street | Vancouver. Find out more about the details of the event here.
Every 15 minutes an elephant is killed for its ivory. Every 8 hours a rhino is poached for its horn. Conservationists estimate that elephants will be extinct in the wild within 10 to 20 years. Several species of rhino have already become extinct. Closing loopholes in global markets and decreasing demand for ivory and rhino horn is essential if these species are to survive.
The focus for this year’s event is on advocacy. Many people ask what Canadians have to do with African elephants. Well, it turns out quite a bit.
Canada was one of only four countries that voted against all countries closing their domestic ivory trade during the 2016 IUCN World Conservation Congress. At the 17th Meeting of the Conference of the Parties to CITES, Canada voted against moving all African elephants to Appendix I to provide them the highest level of protection. In recent years, Canada has been the sole country to issue blanket reservations on all new CITES listings, and has failed to lift those reservations in a timely manner. These inexplicable positions put the Canadian government at odds with a growing international movement to save the African elephant from extinction.
Find out how you can become involved in saving one of the world’s most iconic, essential and beautiful species
While we take what we do seriously we also like to have some fun so there will be face-painting, music, cool people who like to make a difference and some awesome t-shirts for sale to help raise money for frontline conservation work in Africa.
T-shirts for this year’s march.
Poster for this year’s event Please share!
Hope to see you there!
Yikes, people. I’ve been submitting 150 word flash fiction stories to the Ad Hoc flash fiction contest in Bath, England (and I’m proud to say two flash stories have been published) BUT NOW I just registered for the NYC Flash Fiction contest which takes place this weekend and I’m officially scared. What if I can’t write one single word. I’m a serious muller. Generally I need days, weeks, hours, YEARS to mull a story. And I have no idea what genre I’ll have to write it. Wish me luck fellow writers! 1000 words here I come!
What a wonderful, beautiful post and a fitting tribute to an old friend.
See that old photo to the right? I found it yesterday in a scrapbook filled with random high school mementoes. The girl with the beautiful smile playing the violin used to be one of my closest friends. She lived in a small bright green ranch house right across the street from the middle school, which meant that all she had to do was walk out her front door, cross Route 365 –the main street of the town– and there she was, at school. Unlike me, sitting on that accursed bus, groaning and lurching its way around endless curve after endless curve, down from the foothills, 45 minutes or more to school.
In my memory she is always smiling. She had silky dark brown hair, parted in the middle, falling over her shoulders. Her nose was sharp and red and a bit hooked, and her eyes, in my memory, are blue…
View original post 1,095 more words
– Alison McGhee
The newspaper reports that at twilight tonight
Venus and Jupiter will conjoin
in the southwestern sky,
a fist and a half above the horizon.
They won’t come together again for seventeen years.
What the article does not say is that Mercury, the
dark planet, will also be on hand.
He’ll hover low, nearly invisible in a darkened sky.
I stare out the kitchen window toward the sunset.
Seventeen years from now, where
will I be?
Mercury, Roman god of commerce and luck,
let me propose a trade:
Auburn hair, muscles that don’t ache, and a seven-minute mile.
Here’s what I’ll give you in return:
My recipe for Brazilian seafood stew, a talent for
French-braiding, an excellent sense of smell and
the memory of having once kissed Sam W.
Then I see my girl across the room.
She stands on a stool at the sink,
washing her toy dishes and
swaying to a whispered song,
her dark curls a nimbus in the lamplight.
The planets are coming together now.
Minute by minute the time draws nigh for me to watch.
Minute by minute my child wipes dry her red
plastic knife, her miniature blue bowls.
Mercury, here’s another offer, a real one this time:
Let her be.
You can have it all in return,
the salty stew, the braids, the excellent sense of smell
and the softness of Sam’s mouth on mine.
And my life. That too.
All of it I give for this child, that seventeen years hence
she will stand in a distant kitchen, washing dishes
I cannot see, humming a tune I cannot hear.
The Mower, by Philip Larkin
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
a hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
is always the same; we should be careful
of each other, we should be kind
while there is still time.
For more information about Philip Larkin, please click here.
Thanks to Alison for finding and sharing these beautiful poems.