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Iris, Iris, Bellflower, Fuchsia.

July 11, 2008

“It doesn’t have to be
The blue iris, it could be
Weeds, in a vacant lot, or a few
Small stones: just
Pay attention, then patch
A few words together and don’t try
To make them elaborate, this isn’t
A contest but a doorway
Into thanks, and a silence in which
Another voice may speak.” —”Praying”

Mary Oliver’s poem from her book, Blue Iris.

On woodland banks, for blue bell-flowers he creeps;

And now, while looking up among the trees,

He spies a nest, and down he throws his flowers,

And up he climbs with new-fed extacies-

The happiest object in the summer hours.

From “The Village Boy” taken from “The Rural Muse;” a book of poems by John Clare (1793-1864)

Out in the overgrown garden, I’m bashing with a slash-hook

at brightness, wanting to breathe more easily, trying to open

a more ample air. In this unruly green enclosure

I’m spattering grass with the wreckage of fuchsia hedges,

snapping branches that glitter scarlet as they spurt and tumble

and lie still–small silenced bells–at the foot of the bush

they’ve fallen from.

From a poem by Eamon Grennan

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