In 2012, I posted the Wislawa Szymborska poem "The Joy of Writing." Here's the beginning of it:
THE JOY OF WRITING
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence — this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word “woods.”
(Read the rest here.)
Last month in the Poem-a-Day email from Poets.org, I read Maggie Smith's poem "Written Deer," responding to Szymborska's poem. Click through to read the whole thing, but I'm mostly fixating on the last stanza, which ends like this:
What is home but a passage
I'm writing and underlining every time I read it.
I'm away from home right now, and that always makes me think more about home and what it is and isn't. I like the idea that it's a passage I'm writing and underlining. Maybe I'll write my own poem about that.
In the meantime, check out the roundup here to see what other people have posted this week for Poetry Friday.
2 hours ago