Some days, some weeks, you just need the poets.

Maybe it feels that way because it’s Spring and spring cleaning is calling — for our closets and our minds — but it sure feels like a pushing through some barrier.  Maybe I’m being too literal here, but so what.  My pencil does feel brittle.  The ebb and flow, with a little too much ebb.

So today.  Today, I thought I’d share one of my favorite Robinson Jeffers poems.  Five years ago I’d never even heard of him.  But ever since I set foot inside his Tor House and Hawk Tower, he’s been right there.

Love The Wild Swan

“I hate my verses, every line, every word.

Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try

One grass-blade’s curve, or the throat of one bird

That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky.

Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch

One color, one glinting

Hash, of the splendor of things.

Unlucky hunter, Oh bullets of wax,

The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings.”

–This wild swan of a world is no hunter’s game.

Better bullets than yours would miss the white breast

Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame.

Does it matter whether you hate your . . . self?

At least Love your eyes that can see, your mind that can

Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan.