Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I?
Cant’ fly, can’t run, and see how slowly I walk.
Well, I think, I can read books.
‘What’s that you’re doing?’
the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.
the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.
I close the book.
Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.
'What's that you're doing?' whispers the wind, pausing
in a heap just outside the window.
in a heap just outside the window.
Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.
It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know.
It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know.
'Doesn't it?' says the wind, and breaks open, releasing
distillation of blue iris.
distillation of blue iris.
And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.
—Mary Oliver
"Blue Iris," from What Do We Know: Poems and Prose Poems (Da Capo Press, 2002)
June, oil/ cold wax on canvas, plein air, 12x18in
copyright Jan Yates, 2014, available
Beautiful painting and thought-provoking poem. What would we be if we could be exactly what we want and need to be?
ReplyDeleteSo stunningly beautiful! Love the words too. Iris is one of my favourite flowers.
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