Becca
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beccamethyst.bsky.social
Becca
@beccamethyst.bsky.social
120 followers 170 following 23 posts
Bricoleur of teaching, words, music (mostly folk), folks, systems, trees.
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beccamethyst.bsky.social
Poem: "The day a poet is murdered by ICE" by hannah eve levy
January 9, 2026 at 5:36 PM
beccamethyst.bsky.social
And here's "Rain, New Year's Eve" by Maggie Smith, another New Year's poem that's been on my mind:
"Rain, New Year's Eve" by Maggie Smith The rain is a broken piano, playing the same note over and over. My five-year-old said that. Already she knows loving the world means loving the wobbles you can't shim, the creaks you can't oil silent—the jerry-rigged parts, MacGyvered with twine and chewing gum. Let me love the cold rain's plinking. Let me love the world the way I love my young son, not only when he cups my face in his sticky hands, but when, roughhousing, he accidentally splits my lip. Let me love the world like a mother. Let me be tender when it lets me down. Let me listen to the rain's one note and hear a beginner's song.
January 2, 2025 at 9:19 PM
beccamethyst.bsky.social
Here's all of "Counting, This New Year’s Morning, What Powers Yet Remain To Me," the Jane Hirshfield poem that I excerpted:
"Counting, This New Year’s Morning, What Powers Yet Remain To Me" by Jane Hirshfield The world asks, as it asks daily: And what can you make, can you do, to change my deep-broken, fractured? I count, this first day of another year, what remains. I have a mountain, a kitchen, two hands. Can admire with two eyes the mountain, actual, recalcitrant, shuffling its pebbles, sheltering foxes and beetles. Can make black-eyed peas and collards. Can make, from last year’s late-ripening persimmons, a pudding. Can climb a stepladder, change the bulb in a track light. For four years, I woke each day first to the mountain, then to the question. The feet of the new sufferings followed the feet of the old, and still they surprised. I brought salt, brought oil, to the question. Brought sweet tea, brought postcards and stamps. For four years, each day, something. Stone did not become apple. War did not become peace. Yet joy still stays joy. Sequins stay sequins. Words still bespangle, bewilder. Today, I woke without answer. The day answers, unpockets a thought from a friend don’t despair of this falling world, not yet didn’t it give you the asking
January 2, 2025 at 9:18 PM
beccamethyst.bsky.social
"Winter Poem" by Nikki Giovanni:
once a snowflake fell on my brow and i loved it so much and i kissed it and it was happy and called its cousins and brothers and a web of snow engulfed me then i reached to love them all and i squeezed them and they became a spring rain and i stood perfectly still and was a flower
December 11, 2024 at 8:20 PM
beccamethyst.bsky.social
Hello, Bluesky!
Image of a blue dragonfly on the antenna of a blue car with clouds and trees reflected on the car's roof
November 14, 2024 at 6:57 PM