I love works that capture the simultaneous frailty and bravery of human beings. This poem does just that, and does so perfectly.
The Thing Is
by Ellen Bass
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.)
The round up is at Liz in Ink.
7 comments:
Ooh, lovely. I should really subscribe to this poetry stream, but I really cannot bear ONE MORE THING arriving routinely in my inbox. A shame, that.
Oh, I know what you mean, Tanita! The other day I was attempting to whittle down the Inbox (insert evil laugh from the Inbox imps here) and it's a neverending task.
Hey, I recommended A La Carte to a friend the other day and she loved being in the kitchen with Lainey -- she wanted to be right there, looking over her shoulder as she cooked. :)
Love this one! Such great poems at the Writer's Alamanac. I'm rarely disappointed.
Oh, my goodness. This is just my favorite kind of poem. I'm going to share this with others...
Burnt paper. Obesity of grief. Yes, better than saying life has its ups and downs. Thank you!
This one I saved in my special poems file! You'll see it back again on a future Poetry Friday!
Thank you for this.
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