Alive Together New and Selected Poems characters ´ eBook PDF or Kindle ePUB

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Alive Together New and Selected Poems characters ´ eBook, PDF or Kindle ePUB õ In a collection that represents over thirty five years of her writing life this distinguished poet explores a wide range of subjects which include her cultural and family history and reflect her fascination with music and the dReathtaking linguistic virtuosity reminds us how music can transport us out of ourselves and into the nowhere where the enchanted live; in Midwinter Notes the crepuscular world stripped of its veil shines forth as a signal from some realm where the sense of things may be revealed In the title piece Mueller brings a sense of enduring and unclouded wonder to a recognition of all those whose lives might have been our o. I'm torn between feeling so grateful that Mueller wrote this collection full of wisdom and insight and wildly jealous that I didn't write them myself because they are so beautiful I love how she weaves fairy tale and history into her poems with such spot on imagery This will be one of my favorite collections forever

review Î eBook, PDF or Kindle ePUB Ñ Lisel Mueller

On of experiences we all have in common sorrow tenderness desire the revelations of art and mortality the hard dry smack of death against the glass To this community Mueller presents moments after moment where the personal and public realms intersect where lives ranging from her own to those of Mary Shelley and Anton Webern illuminate the ways in which history shapes our lives In Brendel Playing Schubert Mueller's b. “at home the bookshelves connected heaven and earth”One of the wisest poets I have ever read Deep joyous full of wonder and sorrow all together wrapped close in my heart and hands Like Wendell Berry but even better While she is not touted as a nature poet her poems are organic and evoke all that nature is inside outside within without She has lovely poems about her parents “I want the impossible photograph one that would show the world your trick how you and she pulled joy from any borrowed hator sleeve a survivor’s artThis is the hardest knowledge that no one will remember youwhen your daughters are gone” voyager I am a little stunned at how much her poems resonate with me but I am also a daughter of a refugee from war although not a persecuted Jew and I recently partially completed a project of editing old photos of my mom and her mom and there were some with so much joy it was exactly what Lisel is talking about I am at a time in my life where life is a little ugly around me or a lot and immersing myself in poetry and photos is essential to sustain my soul My husband says spring will be earlyHe says this every yearAnd every year I disagreeHe needs me the dark side of the planetary euationTogether we make the euinox IN PASSINGHow swiftly the strained honeyof afternoon lightflows into darknessand the closed bud shrugs offits special mysteryin order to break into blossomas if what exists existsso that it can be lostand become preciousHow I would paint happinessSomething hidden a windfall A meteor shower No A flowering tree releasing all its blossoms at onceand the one standing beneath itunexpectedly robed in bloomThingsWhat happened is we grew lonelyliving among the thingsso we gave the clock a facethe chair a backthe table four stout legswhich will never suffer fatigueWe fitted our shoes with tonguesas smooth as our ownand hung tongues inside bellsso we could listento their emotional languageand because we loved graceful profilesthe pitcher received a lipthe bottle a long slender neckEven what was beyond uswas recast in our image;we gave the country a heartthe storm an eyethe cave a mouthso we could pass into safetyTearsThe first woman who ever weptwas appalled at what stungher eyes and ran down her cheeks Saltwater SeawaterHow was it possibleHadn't she and the manspent many days movingupland to where the grassflourished where the streamuenched their thirst with sweet waterHow could she have carried these sea dropsas if they were precious seeds;where could she have stowed themShe looked at the watchful gazellesand the heavy lidded frogs;she looked at glass eyed birdsand nervous black eyed miceNone of them wept not even the fishthat dripped in her hands when she caught themNot even the man Only shecarried the sea inside her bodyALIVE TOGETHERSpeaking of marvels I am alivetogether with you when I might have beenalive with anyone under the sunwhen I might have been Abelard's womanor the whore of a Renaissance popeor a peasant wife with not enough foodand not enough love with my childrendead of the plague I might have sleptin an alcove next to the manwith the golden nose who poked itinto the business of starsor sewn a starry flagfor a general with wooden teethI might have been the exemplary Pocahontasor a woman without a nameweeping in Master's bedfor my husband exchanged for a mulemy daughter lost in a drunken betI might have been stretched on a totem poleto appease a vindictive godor left a useless girl childto die on a cliff I like to thinkI might have been Mary Shelleyin love with a wrongheaded angelor Mary's friend I might have been youThis poem is endless the odds against us are endlessour chances of being alive togetherstatistically nonexistent;still we have made it alive in a timewhen rationalists in suare hatsand hatless Jehovah's Witnessesagree it is almost overalive with our lively childrenwho–but for endless ifs–might have missed out on being alivetogether with marvels and folliesand longings and lies and wishesand error and humor and mercyand journeys and voices and facesand colors and summers and morningsand knowledge and tears and chanceHeartlandNow that we’ve given our hearts awayWith the bric a brac we want them backNow we look for them secondhand Someone else’s in the old songs The slowly unfolding novelsWe never had time for Hearts That taught themselves to fly;overstuffed hearts still leakingDowny secrets like feathersWe want someone to say ‘I give you my heart’ meaning‘Summer and winter’ meaning‘All my time in the this world’In the Thriving Season In memory of my mother Now as she catches fistfuls of sunriding down dust and air to her cribmy first child in her first springstretches bare hands back to your darknessand heals your silence the vast hurtof your deaf ear and mute tonguewith doves hatched in her young throat Now ghost begotten infanciesare the marrow of trees and poolsand blue uprisings in the woodsspread revolution to the mindI can believe birth is fatheredby death believe that she was uickwhen you forgave pain and terrorand shook the fever from your blood Now in the thriving season of lovewhen the bud relents into floweryour love turned absence has turned once and if my comforts fall soft as rainon her flutters it is becauselove grows by what it remembers of loveO brave new world that hath such people in itSoon you will be like her Prospero’s daughter Finding the door that leads you out of yourselfOut of the rare enameled ark of you mindWhere you live with the gracious and light footed creaturesThat thrive in the glaze of your art and freedomSoon you will see the face child of a manWith its ridges and slopes it cisterns of natural light;You will wander y streams across the plain of a handEnvy the dark as it lies down on a shoulder And for the sake of that shoulder that hand that face Banish yourself from the one flawless place Not Only the Eskimos Not only the Eskimos We have only one noun but as many different kinds the grainy snow of the Puritans and snow of soft fat flakes guerrilla snow which comes in the night and changes the world by morning rabbinical snow a permanent skullcap on the highest mountains snow that blows in like the Lone Ranger riding hard from out of the West surreal snow in the Dakotas when you can't find your house your street though you are not in a dream or a science fiction movie snow that tastes good to the sun when it licks black tree limbs leaving us only one white stripe a replica of a skunk unbelievable snows the blizzard that strikes on the tenth of April the false snow before Indian summer the Big Snow on Mozart's birthday when Chicago became the Elysian Fields and strangers spoke to each other paper snow cut and taped to the inside of grade school windows in an old tale the snow that covers a nest of strawberries small hearts ripe and sweet the special snow that goes with Christmas whether it falls or not the Russian snow we remember along with the warmth and smell of furs though we have never traveled to Russia or worn furs Villon's snows of yesteryear lost with ladies gone out like matches the snow in Joyce's The Dead the silent secret snow in a story by Conrad Aiken which is the snow of first love the snowfall between the child and the spacewoman on TV snow as idea of whiteness as in snowdrop snow goose snowball bush the snow that puts stars in your hair and your hair which has turned to snow the snow Elinor Wylie walked in in velvet shoes the snow before her footprints and the snow after the snow in the back of our heads whiter than white which has to do with childhood again each yearWhy We Tell StoriesI Because we used to have leaves and on damp days our muscles feel a tug painful now from when roots pulled us into the ground and because our children believe they can fly an instinct retained from when the bones in our arms were shaped like zithers and broke neatly under their feathers and because before we had lungs we knew how far it was to the bottom as we floated open eyed like painted scarves through the scenery of dreams and because we awakened and learned to speak 2 We sat by the fire in our caves and because we were poor we made up a tale about a treasure mountain that would open only for us and because we were always defeated we invented impossible riddles only we could solve monsters only we could kill women who could love no one else and because we had survived sisters and brothers daughters and sons we discovered bones that rose from the dark earth and sang as white birds in the trees 3 Because the story of our life becomes our life Because each of us tells the same story but tells it differently and none of us tells it the same way twice Because grandmothers looking like spiders want to enchant the children and grandfathers need to convince us what happened happened because of them and though we listen only haphazardly with one ear we will begin our story with the word and Necessities1A map of the world Not the one in the atlasbut the one in our heads the one we keep coloring inWith the blue thread of the river by which we grew upThe green smear of the woods we first made love inThe yellow city we thought was our futureThe red highways not traveled the green oneswith their missed exits the black side roadswhich took us where we had not meant to goThe high peaks recorded by relativesthough we prefer certain unmarked elevationsthe private alps no one knows we have climbedThe careful boundaries we draw and eraseAnd always around the edgesthe opaue wash of blue concealingthe drop off they have stepped into before ussingly mapless not looking back2The illusion of progress Imagine our lives without ittape measures rolled back yardsticks chopped offWheels turning but going nowherePaintings flat with no vanishing pointThe plots of all novels circular;page numbers reversing themselves past the middleThe mountaintop no longer a goalmerely the point between ascent and descentAll streets looping back on themselves;life as a beckoning road an absurd ideaOur children refusing to grow out of their childhoods;the years refusing to drag themselvestoward the new centuryAnd hope the puppy that bounds aheadno longer a household animal3Answers to uestions an endless supplyNew ones that startle old ones that reassure usAll of them wrong perhaps but for the momentsolutions like kisses or surgeryRising inflections countered by level voiceswords beginning with w hushedby declarative sentences The small bold sphereof the period chasing after the hookthe doubter that walks on waterand treads air and refuses to go away4Evidence that we matter The crash of the planewhich at the last moment we did not takeThe involuntary turn of the headwhich caused the bullet to miss usThe obscene caller who wakes us at midnightto the smell of gas The moon'sfull blessing when we fell in loveits black mood when it was all overConfirm us we say to the worldwith your weather your gifts your warningsyour ringing telephones your long bleak silences5Even now the old things first thingswhich taught us language Things of day and of nightIrrational lightning fickle clouds the incorruptible moonFire as revolution grass as the heirto all revolutions Snowas the alphabet of the dead subtle undecipheredThe river as what we wish it to beTrees in their humanness animals in their othernessSummits Chasms ClearingsAnd stars which gave us the word distanceso we could name our deepest sadnessMonet Refuses the OperationDoctor you say there are no haloesaround the streetlights in Parisand what I see is an aberrationcaused by old age an afflictionI tell you it has taken me all my lifeto arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angelsto soften and blur and finally banishthe edges you regret I don't seeto learn that the line I called the horizondoes not exist and sky and waterso long apart are the same state of beingFifty four years before I could seeRouen cathedral is builtof parallel shafts of sunand now you want to restoremy youthful errors fixednotions of top and bottomthe illusion of three dimensional spacewisteria separatefrom the bridge it coversWhat can I say to convince youthe Houses of Parliament dissolvesnight after night to becomethe fluid dream of the ThamesI will not return to a universeof objects that don't know each otheras if islands were not the lost childrenof one great continent The worldis flux and light becomes what it touchesbecomes water lilies on waterabove and below waterbecomes lilac and mauve and yellowand white and cerulean lampssmall fists passing sunlightso uickly to one anotherthat it would take long streaming hair inside my brush to catch itTo paint the speed of lightOur weighted shapes these verticalsburn to mix with airand change our bones skin clothesto gases Doctorif only you could seehow heaven pulls earth into its armsand how infinitely the heart expands to claim this world blue vapor without end

Lisel Mueller Ñ 7 free download

Alive Together New and Selected PoemsIn a collection that represents over thirty five years of her writing life this distinguished poet explores a wide range of subjects which include her cultural and family history and reflect her fascination with music and the discoveries offered by language In fact her book is a testament to the miraculous power of language to interpret and transform our world It is a testament that invites readers to share her visi. In the poem Heartland Mueller writes Now that we've given our hearts away with the bric a brac we want them back Now we look for them secondhand someone else's in the old songsthe slowly unfolding novels we never had time for Hearts that taught themselves to fly Her work is full of these kind of accessible profound lines Her use of detail and observation her sheer ability to mine the emotion out of every word with subtle powerful strokes makes this collection one for the bedsideI think it will be on my currently reading list for awhile as it is worth returning and returning to