Last Night of Chanukah

The last night of Chanukah, full of friends and laughter. We made food, set a spatula on fire, set candles on fire (on purpose), told the Chanukah story and read a children's story, talked and celebrated the festival of lights.  I've discovered two very different sorts of poets of those I've read recently: city poets and nature poets. City poetry contains a rugged, industrial beauty, full of sunlight slipping over glass and across stones, or birds fluttering between buildings. It frequently details a more somber note, of the walking death of empty souls strolling down streets toward lifeless jobs, or the dismal truths of city life in abuse and victims and solitude, despite the population. Like all poetry, it crests and troughs in oceanic waves of illustrious imagery, accomplishing that alchemical impossibility: transforming what seems worth nothing into gold.
Country poetry, nature poetry is what I love. Granted, not all poetry falls into these two easy categories - perhaps most of it doesn't. And there are plenty of other categories out there to find, like ee cumming's bizarre poetry, romantic poetry (nearly every poet ever), religious (Donne) poetry, story poetry (Shakespeare, Milton, Beowulf), mythical poetry (Wasteland, Milton, Keats: Hyperion), nature poetry (Mary Oliver, Jane Kenyon, Wendell Berry).
Then there is modern and past poetry, and some of the strangest post-modern poets (Bukowski, Simic) or those who do spoken word. I'm barely knocking the hat off of the world of poetry, and I feel like every new poet I find opens a new world to me.


Everything wore the wedding cloth of frost
this morning, branches click-clacking as teeth
chattering in the breeze, even the bumbling bees know
not to hover about in this weather, no
it's safer inside clothed in the warmth of the hive and fire
blazing beside in the hearth, dreams of honey
peonies sleep, and so should I;
who knew it was only berries desired, and flowers
from the mountainside?
love is so simple, I've decided
clothed in sequenced rings, leafed and divided
as the weeping willow tree
and no less poignant.