We lie back to back. Curtains lift and fall, like the chest of someone sleeping. Wind moves the leaves of the box elder; they show their light undersides, turning all at once like a school of fish. Suddenly I understand that I am happy. For months this feeling has been coming closer, stopping for short visits, like a timid suitor.
I think I've forgotten to post this poem in the past, even though I love it and think its last three lines are some of the best I've ever read.
A Blessing by James Wright
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to me And nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, Her mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom.
Oh, summer has clothed the earth In a cloak from the loom of the sun! And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue, And a belt where the rivers run.
And now for the kiss of the wind, And the touch of the air's soft hands, With the rest from strife and the heat of life, With the freedom of lakes and lands.
I envy the farmer's boy Who sings as he follows the plow; While the shining green of the young blades lean To the breezes that cool his brow.
He sings to the dewy morn, No thought of another's ear; But the song he sings is a chant for kings And the whole wide world to hear.
He sings of the joys of life, Of the pleasures of work and rest, From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art; 'T is a song of the merriest.
O ye who toil in the town, And ye who moil in the mart, Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong Shall renew your joy of heart.
Oh, poor were the worth of the world If never a song were heard,— If the sting of grief had no relief, And never a heart were stirred.
So, long as the streams run down, And as long as the robins trill, Let us taunt old Care with a merry air, And sing in the face of ill.
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am Of stars that do not give a damn, I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time.
This morning’s reheated coffee and the dying sapling on our land remind me unavoidably of you. The fire smoldered through the night, but now the coals are turning blue.
And yeah, it’s glowing and bright, and we could stoke it if we tried. But in the end it’s not big enough to warm the both of us, so I’ll walk away if you’ll be the one to put it out.
Because I want bonfires, baby, the size of the blaze in my heart. I want bonfires, love, I want to feel the heat from the start.
And yeah, this fire is glowing and bright, and we could stoke it if we tried. But in the end it’s not big enough to warm the both of us, so I’ll walk away if you’ll be the one to put it out.
Because I want bonfires, baby, the size of the blaze in my heart. I want bonfires, love, I want to feel the heat from the start.
I've been listening to Iron & Wine's Around the Well CDs over and over again. This song's lyrics resonate with me right now.
Hickory by Sam Beam
He kissed her once as she leaned on the windowsill She'll never love him but knows that her father will Her fallen fruit is all rotten in the middle But her breast never dries when he's hungry
The money came and she died in her rocking chair The window wide and the rain in her braided hair A letter locked in the pattern of her knuckle Like a hymn to the house she was making
Blind and whistling just around the corner And there's a wind that is whispering something Strong as hell but not hickory rooted
She kissed him once cause he gave her a cigarette And turned around but he waits like a turned down bed And summer left like her walking with another And a sound of a church bell ringing
The money came and he died like a butterfly A buried star in the haze of the city lights A gun went off and a mother dropped her baby On the blue feathered wing - we were lucky
Blind and whistling just around the corner And there's a wind that is whispering something Strong as hell but not hickory rooted
The composer's name was Beagle or something, one of those Brits who make the world wistful with chorales and canticles and this piece, a tone poem or what-have-you, chimes and strings aswirl, dangerous for one whose eye lids and sockets have been rashing from tears. The music occupied the car where I had parked and then sat, staring at a tree, a smallish maple, fire-gold and half-undone by the wind, shaking in itself, shocking blue morning sky behind, and also the trucks and telephone wires and dogs and children late to school along Orange Street, but it was the tree that caused an uproar, it was the tree that shook and shed, aureate as a shaken soul, I remembered I was supposed to have one—for convenience
I placed it in my chest, the heart being away, and now it seems the soul has lodged there, shaking, golden-orange, half-spent but clanging truer than Beagle music or my forehead pressed hard on the steering wheel in petition for release.
We rode the bus out, past fields of sunflowers that sloped for miles, hill after hill of them blooming.
The bus was filled with old people. On their laps women held loaves of freshly baked bread. Men slept in their seats wearing work clothes.
You stared out the window beside me. Your eyes were so hard that you might have been watching the glass.
Fields and fields of sunflowers.
Arriving we slowed on the cobblestone walkway. Graves looked like boxes, or houses from high up.
On a bench teenage lovers slouched in toward each other. Their backs formed a shape like a seashell. You didn't want to go inside.
But the rooms sang. Song like breath, blown through spaces in skin.
The beds were wide boards stacked up high on the walls. The glass on the door to the toilet was broken. I imagined nothing.
You wore your black sweater and those dark sunglasses. You didn't look at me.
The rooms were empty, and the courtyard was empty, and the sunlight on cobblestone could have been water, and I think even when we are here we are not here.
The courtyard was flooded with absence. The tunnel was crowded with light. Like a throat. Like a—
In a book I read how at its mouth they played music, some last piece by Wagner or Mozart or Strauss.
I don't know why. I don't know who walked through the tunnel or who played or what finally they could have wanted. I don't know where the soul goes.
Your hair looked like wheat. It was gleaming.
Nearby on the hillside a gallows leaned slightly. What has time asked of it? Nights. Windstorms.
Your hair looked like fire, or honey. You didn't look at me.
Grass twisted up wild, lit gold all around us. We could have been lost somewhere, in those funny hills.
And the ride back—I don't remember. Why was I alone? It was night, then. It was still morning.
But the fields were filled with dead sunflowers. Blooms darkened to brown, the stalks bowed. And the tips dried to husks that for miles kept reaching. Those dreamless sloped fields of traveling husks.
Now that no one looking at the night— Sky blanked by leakage from electric lamps And headlights prowling through the parking lot Could recognize the Babylonian dance That once held every gazer; now that spoons And scales, and swordsmen battling with beasts Have decomposed into a few stars strewn Illegibly across an empty space, Maybe the old unfalsifiable Predictions and extrapolated spheres No longer need to be an obstacle To hearing what it is the stars declare: That there are things created of a size We can't and weren't meant to understand, As fish know nothing of the sun that writes Its bright glyphs on the black waves overhead.
Thou art not lovelier than lilacs... by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,—no, Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair Than small white single poppies,—I can bear Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though From left to right, not knowing where to go, I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear So has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.
Like him who day by day unto his draught Of delicate poison adds him one drop more Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten, Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed Each hour more deeply than the hour before, I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.
Let the rain kiss you Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops Let the rain sing you a lullaby The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk The rain makes running pools in the gutter The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night And I love the rain.
It's not the liquid spreading on the floor, A half a minute's labor with the mop; It's everything you've ever spilled, and more.
The stupid broken spout that wouldn't pour; The nasty little salesman in the shop. It's not the liquid spreading on the floor,
A stain perhaps, a new, unwelcome chore, But scarcely cause for sobs that will not stop. It's everything you've ever spilled, and more.
It's the disease for which there is no cure, The starving child, the taunting brutal cop. It's not the liquid spreading on the floor
But through a planet, rotten to the core, Where things grow old, get soiled, snap off, or drop. It's everything you've ever spilled, and more:
The vision of yourself you can't ignore, Poor wretched extra clinging to a prop! It's not the liquid spreading on the floor. It's everything you've ever spilled, and more.
Time will say nothing but I told you so, Time only knows the price we have to pay; If I could tell you I would let you know.
If we should weep when clowns put on their show, If we should stumble when musicians play, Time will say nothing but I told you so.
There are no fortunes to be told, although, Because I love you more than I can say, If I could tell you I would let you know.
The winds must come from somewhere when they blow, There must be reasons why the leaves decay; Time will say nothing but I told you so.
Perhaps the roses really want to grow, The vision seriously intends to stay; If I could tell you I would let you know.
Suppose all the lions get up and go, And all the brooks and soldiers run away; Will Time say nothing but I told you so? If I could tell you I would let you know.
A friend once brought me a poetry anthology from a Filipino poet after she had been to the Philippines. She said she almost kept it for herself. I'm glad she gave it up.
Double Vision by Carlomar Arcangel Daoana
I admire the mind's various say on things: the night is washed by rain and angels, stars grind in their ordeal of fractured light, landscapes swing with the song of cicadas.
How the mind goes after them-- architectures of air, gossamer wings, ghosts made out of pure ideas-- chasing them.
But I prefer the physical fact of this world, the heft and hardness of it, the corrugated surfaces, the upturned earth.
That's why when I held my lover's palm to my face, I thought of the network of veins circulating blood to this area, the wrist like a small beating heart, all tending their emergencies in only to prove the undeniability of my presence.
Such is the unconditional tenderness, the body trained to inhabit completely-- sometimes out of love, sometimes out of cruelty-- the given moment because, unlike the mind, it can never regenerate itself, can never look back.
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the dingle starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace.
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
During my junior year of college, a group of fellow poetry-lovers created a club. Though we had various discussions about the name of our gathering, it remained unassumingly the Poetry Club. We met in the basement of the old brick library, in a small room with a heavy table that heard our thoughts and told no one. It was a safe place.
One night, one of the girls brought in a discovered poem (how or where she found it I do not remember) and read it aloud. I remember it because the poem was long and beautiful, and she read it simply and honestly with a lilt in her inflection that made the world stop for a moment. Even now, it's difficult to find a good record of this poem online.
The Ploughman's Prayer to God by Johann von Teppel
Just and eternal keeper of the world, God of all gods, awful and wonderful Lord of lords, almightiest of spirits, prince of all princes, source from which all goodness flows, holiest of the holy, crown-giver and the crown, rewarder and reward, elector in whose hand is all election, blesser of those to whom thou givest life, joy and delight of the angels, molder of forms most high, patriarch and child, hear me.
Oh light that needs no other light, light that outshines and darkens all external light, radiance from before which all other radiance flees, radiance like to which all light is as darkness, light beside which all is shadow, light that said in the beginning “let there be light,” fire that burns unquenched, everlastingly, without beginning or end, hear me.
Holiness above all things holy, way without false turnings to life everlasting, best and which there is no better, life from which all things live, truth of very truth, wisdom embracing all wisdom, issue of all strength, perceiver of all right and wrongdoing, succor in all errors and transgressions, quencher of all thirsts, comforter of the sick, seal of highest majesty, keystone of heaven’s harmony, knower of all hearts, shaper of all countenances, planet holding sway in all planets, sovereign influence of the stars, mighty master of the heavenly court, law before which the orbits of heaven can nevermore bend from their fixtures, bright sun, hear me.
Assuagement of all fevers, master of all masters, only father of all creation, ever-present watcher of all ways and at all arrivals, almighty escort from womb to tomb, artificer of all forms, foundation of all good works, lover of all truth, hater of all corruption, only just judge, arbiter from whose decree no single thing may depart evermore, hear me.
Balm of our weariness, fast knot which none may unloose, perfect being having power over all perfection, very knower of all secrets and of things known to none, giver of eternal joys, bestower of earthly blessedness, host, ministrant, and friend to all good men, hunter to whom no track is hid, mold of all thought, judge and unifier, measurer and container of all circles, gracious harkener to all them that call upon thee, hear me.
Never failing support of the needy, comforter of them that hope in thee, feeder of hungry, all powerful creator of being, from nothing and of nothing from being, quickener of all beings momentary, temporal, or eternal, preserver and destroyer of life, thou who imaginest, conceiveth, giveth form to, and takest away all things, hear me.
Everlasting light, eternal luminary, true-faring mariner whose vessel never founders, ensign beneath whose banner victory is sure, author of rightness, architect of the foundations of the earth, tamer of the seas, mingler of the inconstant air, kindler of fire, creator of all elements, of the thunder, of the lightning, of the mist, of the hail, of the snow, of the rain, of the rainbow, of the dew and the mildew, of the wind, of the frost, and of all their workings sole craftsman, monarch of the heavenly host, emperor in whose service none may fail, all gentlest, all strongest, and all merciful creator, pity and hear me.
Store from which all treasures spring, fountain from which all pure streams flow, shepherd from whom none goes astray, lodestar to which all good things strain and cleave as the bees to their queen, cause of all causes, hear me.
Good above all goods, most august Lord Jesus, receive graciously the soul of my dear and best beloved wife. Grant her eternal peace, refresh her with the dew of thy grace, keep her under the shadow of thy wing. Accept her, Lord, into thy perfect satisfaction, where the least and the greatest alike have their contentment. Let her, oh Lord, from whom she is come, dwell in thy kingdom with the blessed, the everlasting spirits. I grieve for Margaretha, my chosen wife. Grant her, gracious Lord, in the mirror of thine almighty and eternal godhead, wherein the choirs of angels have their light to see, and contemplate herself everlasting, and everlastingly rejoice. May all things that live under the blazon of the eternal standard-bearer, all creatures whatsoever, help me to say with heart tranquil and serene, amen.
I have been privileged to know people in real life who write better poetry than I do. This was written by my friend Laura and published in our college's literary magazine. It is still teaching me what good poetry is.
The Poem I Almost Did Not Write by Laura P.
they hold lightbulbs high above their heads— (they are the lovers, you know) the glass is for how fragile, how intimately close to dropping, dashing, smashing against any surface, really, any one they choose, and the light, of course, is the energy, no matter which numbers and symbols they use to measure its vigor, but also (just below the surface, mind) there is the intellectual tap dance working to a frenzy all the thoughts they thought, all the miles they paced and the daring adventures love called them to in their minds as they fell into each other’s arms and let the lightbulbs shatter on the ground.
I found this poem in one of my English textbooks when I was young, and inexplicably fell in love with it. I hadn't read much poetry before this, and I think the alliteration and imagery captivated me. I also remember not knowing what the heck a "shoon" was.
Silver by Walter de la Mare
Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon; This way, and that, she peers, and sees Silver fruit upon silver trees; One by one the casements catch Her beams beneath the silvery thatch; Couched in his kennel, like a log, With paws of silver sleeps the dog; From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep; A harvest mouse goes scampering by, With silver claws and a silver eye; And moveless fish in the water gleam, By silver reeds in a silver stream.
I'm surprised I haven't posted this poem here before, because it bears significance as the first long poem I memorized as a child. I really like the thoughts it expresses, as well as the cadence of the stanzas. I wouldn't be surprised if you've read this one before, but it's worth another look.
If by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with triumph and disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run - Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
They don't wade in so much as they are taken. Deep in the day, in the deep of the field, every current in the grasses whispers hurry hurry, every yellow spreads its perfume like a rumor, impelling them further on. It is the way of girls. It is the sway of their dresses in the summer trance- light, their bare calves already far-gone in green. What songs will they follow? Whatever the wood warbles, whatever storm or harm the border promises, whatever calm. Let them go. Let them go traceless through the high grass and into the willow- blur, traceless across the lean blue glint of the river, to the long dark bodies of the conifers, and over the welcoming threshold of nightfall.
Today, not a poem, but a collection of some of my favorite lines in songs, which are also poetry.
Favorite Song Lyrics
If you want to kiss the sky, you'd better learn how to kneel. --U2, "Mysterious Ways"
Every heart is a package tangled up in knots someone else tied. --Josh Ritter, "Kathleen" (recently discovered)
The book of love is long and boring No one can lift the damn thing It's full of charts and facts and figures and instructions for dancing But I love it when you read to me and you can read me anything. --Peter Gabriel, "The Book of Love"
And maybe You're gonna be the one that saves me You're gonna be the one that saves me And after all You're my wonderwall. --Ryan Adams cover, "Wonderwall"
Mother, don't worry I killed the last snake that lived in the creekbed Mother, don't worry I've got some money I saved for the weekend Mother, remember being so stern with that girl who was with me? Mother, remember the blink of an eye when I breathed through your body?
So may the sun rise, bring hope where it once was forgotten. Sons are like birds, flying upward over the mountain. --Iron & Wine, "Upward Over the Mountain"
Hurricanes will come Earthquakes break the walls Oceans rise Empires fall
Enter world, light unshown Follow heart, follow home Here we are, light unshown One round heart, one round home --The Wailin' Jennys, "Apocalypse Lullaby"
Fare thee well, my own true love Farewell for a while; I'm going away But I'll be back, though I go ten thousand miles Ten thousand miles, my own true love Ten thousand miles or more The rocks may melt and the seas may burn If I should not return --Mary Chapin Carpenter, "10,000 Miles"
Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise Thou mine inheritance, now and always Thou and thou only first in my heart High King of heaven, my treasure thou art. --"Be Thou My Vision"
I'd rather feel the pain all too familiar than be broken by a lover I don't understand. --Jars of Clay, "Jealous Kind"
If you'd call my name out loud If you'd call my name out loud Do you suppose that I would come running? Do you suppose I'd come at all? I suppose I would. --Dispatch, "Out Loud"
She won't falter easy She'll be careful, she'll be coy But still she paints her heart among the musings of a boy
At the break of morning day awaits her when she sleeps Deep inside her dreams is all the beauty that she keeps
If you find her, tell her that I love her If she hears you, ask her heart to come --Future of Forestry, "If You Find Her"
Our fathers tell us whatever we want can be had by effort, and effort is the good. Work hard, and you will attain.
So we do as they say, and gain the same things: steady jobs and fading dreams. But in the spare minutes of our livelihoods, we question the truth of these parental claims.
For not all things are born out of energy. Hope takes leave like a bird we can’t follow. We desperately wish our fathers were right; that we could race doubt and win; that we could reach out for luck and beauty like the baseball on that summer afternoon.
If only they were right. If only, by effort, we could leave nothing undone. For example, if I told you your love was at the end of this road how fast would you run?
I woke up in the sun on Tuesday without you. Dug my feet into the empty carpet without you. Squinted without you. Washed my face without you. Cold cereal without you. Clean shirt without you. Fresh air without you. Life without you.
I woke up in the sun on Tuesday without you, and tried not to weep when my hand, flung over the side of the bed, did not meet yours.
Today, a cheating departure from my own work, only because I can't stand not to share something this beautiful. I received this in my inbox this morning. I intend to buy the book it is excerpted from.
Untitled (This is what was bequeathed us) by Gregory Orr
This is what was bequeathed us: This earth the beloved left And, leaving, Left to us.
No other world But this one: Willows and the river And the factory With its black smokestacks.
No other shore, only this bank On which the living gather.
No meaning but what we find here. No purpose but what we make.
That, and the beloved’s clear instructions: Turn me into song; sing me awake.
Found poems are verses culled from an already existing piece of writing. We practiced them several times in my college English classes. For this one, I referred to my Facebook home page, mostly status updates and comments.
What's on your mind?
i don't remember actually sleeping last night. back to writing which is even harder.
up early again. i suppose i shall take it as it comes. why was this so normal ten years ago but so challenging now?
i haven't lost it yet. that helps a bit. in fact, i do believe that i much prefer it.
added, added, and updated. it never matters, going to or coming home from. watching, reading, teaching, i swim for brighter days.
This month I'm going to try to participate in NaPoWriMo, or National Poetry Writing Month. The website Poets.org is challenging poetry enthusiasts to write one poem a day for the month of April.
Since I know that I won't be able to keep up with writing new material every day, I'm going to at least pledge to post one of my own poems each day, though some of them might be old. I'll try not to repeat anything I've already posted on this blog, though I may slip up.
I'm starting with my most recent poem. Happy National Poetry Month!
Nostos for James
You told us that one of the excesses that can malnourish the mind is blinding emotion. Will you think it inappropriate, then, that I write in this form, considered to be the ultimate outpouring of emotion, to tell you that I miss every word you said because their worth has sparked to pricelessness in the interim? The mind should point forward, a tall ship on the memory sea, but I have capsized. Emotion is slower, but will it not one day also float me home?
I'd like to take a moment to feature an anthology of poetry from one of my favorite authors. Madeleine L'Engle (1918-2007) was a vibrant woman whose many occupations--actor, author, poet, wife, mother--coalesced to produce some really beautiful works. My favorite books of hers are the ones in the Murray trilogy: A Wrinkle in Time, A Wind in the Door, and A Swiftly Tilting Planet. These books expanded my faith and my world, opening my eyes to new kinds of beauty in the universe.
This anthology of Madeleine's poetry was published in 2005, just shortly before her death. Though she is primarily known as a novelist, her poetry is powerful and skillful, fanciful and experimental. It's a joy to read, and I highly recommend it for fellow lovers of poetry.
An excerpt:
Love Letter Addressed To: by Madeleine L'Engle
Your immanent eminence wholly transcendent permanent, in firmament holy, resplendent other and aweful incomprehensible legal, unlawful wild, indefensible eminent immanence mysterium tremendum mysterium fascinans incarnate, trinitarian being impassible infinite wisdom one indivisible king of the kingdom logos, word-speaker star-namer, narrator man-maker, man-seeker ex nihil creator unbegun, unbeginning complete but unending wind-weaving, sun-spinning ruthless, unbending: Eternal compassion helpless before you I, Lord, in my fashion love and adore you.
Hold me against the dark: I am afraid. Circle me with your arms. I am made So tiny and my atoms so unstable That at any moment I may explode. I am unable To contain myself in unity. My outlines shiver With the shock of living. I endeavor To hold the I as one only for the cloud Of which I am a fragment, yet to which I'm vowed To be responsible. Its light against my face Reveals the witness of the stars, each in its place Singing, each encompassed by the rest, The many joined to one, the mightiest to the least. It is so great a thing to be an infinitesimal part Of this immeasurable orchestra the music bursts the heart, And from this tiny plosion all the fragments join: Joy orders the disunity until the song is one.
From "The Book of Hours: Love Poems to God" by Rainer Maria Rilke
I believe in all that has never yet been spoken. I want to free what waits within me so that what no one else has dared to wish for may for once spring clear without my contriving.
If this is arrogant, God, forgive me, but this is what I need to say. May what I do flow from me like a river, no forcing and no holding back, the way it is with children.
Then in these swelling and ebbing currents, these deepening tides moving out, returning, I will sing you as no one ever has, streaming through widening channels into the open sea.
He did not wait till the world was ready, till men and nations were at peace. He came when the Heavens were unsteady, and prisoners cried out for release.
He did not wait for the perfect time. He came when the need was deep and great. He dined with sinners in all their grime, turned water into wine. He did not wait
till hearts were pure. In joy he came to a tarnished world of sin and doubt. To a world like ours, of anguished shame he came, and his Light would not go out.
He came to a world which did not mesh, to heal its tangles, shield its scorn. In the mystery of the Word made Flesh the Maker of the stars was born.
We cannot wait till the world is sane to raise our songs with joyful voice, for to share our grief, to touch our pain, He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!
Every October it becomes important, no, necessary to see the leaves turning, to be surrounded by leaves turning; it's not just the symbolism, to confront in the death of the year your death, one blazing farewell appearance, though the irony isn't lost on you that nature is most seductive when it's about to die, flaunting the dazzle of its incipient exit, an ending that at least so far the effects of human progress (pollution, acid rain) have not yet frightened you enough to make you believe is real; that is, you know this ending is a deception because of course nature is always renewing itself— the trees don't die, they just pretend, go out in style, and return in style: a new style.
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Is it deliberate how far they make you go especially if you live in the city to get far enough away from home to see not just trees but only trees? The boring highways, roadsigns, high speeds, 10-axle trucks passing you as if they were in an even greater hurry than you to look at leaves: so you drive in terror for literal hours and it looks like rain, or snow, but it's probably just clouds (too cloudy to see any color?) and you wonder, given the poverty of your memory, which road had the most color last year, but it doesn't matter since you're probably too late anyway, or too early— whichever road you take will be the wrong one and you've probably come all this way for nothing.
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You'll be driving along depressed when suddenly a cloud will move and the sun will muscle through and ignite the hills. It may not last. Probably won't last. But for a moment the whole world comes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives— red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermilion, gold. Flame and rust. Flame and rust, the permutations of burning. You're on fire. Your eyes are on fire. It won't last, you don't want it to last. You can't stand any more. But you don't want it to stop. It's what you've come for. It's what you'll come back for. It won't stay with you, but you'll remember that it felt like nothing else you've felt or something you've felt that also didn't last.
A tree that had lost a very small branch cried to the earth that life was unfair. The earth gave comfort and, in time, the branch scarred over and the tree healed. The earth smiled to herself at the small wisdom of the tree and grasped her great clefts and rifts and tried to close them. And peace there was for a while. But then the tree was made into a gun. And greater rifts were cut to find the heart of the earth. And the earth wept for the days when she had had time to close rifts great and clefts small; when peace, though broken by war, could be restored again. And then, a tree that had lost a very small branch cried to the earth that life was pain...
Two sides of this coin, leading to 'myself' and 'the wide world' Taken each by themselves I find flat and unknown respectively But taken together, I am filled with the world And the world has meaning to one small person. Ambiguity and mystery fail time and again to discover this knowing, paradox eternal. I cannot contain the world, and the world cannot be valid except there be those like me to accept its being. It's a lonely fate, being human: Called to live until all else fails. And driven to communicate until veritable intercourse is needed. Curses be for the willfully lonely.
...We gaze into the night as if remembering the bright unbroken planet we once came from, to which we will never be permitted to return. We are amazed how hurt we are. We would give anything for what we have.
I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets. I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road. At night I turn back the clocks; I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.
What good does it do? The hours have done their job. I say my own name. I say goodbye. The words follow each other downwind. I love my wife but send her away.
My parents rise out of their thrones into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing? Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same. I empty myself of my life and my life remains.
This is a poem that's lovely in English in such a way as to make you wonder how much more beautiful it is in its original language.
Last Night As I Was Sleeping by Antonio Machado translated by Robert Bly
Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that a spring was breaking out in my heart. I said: Along which secret aqueduct, Oh water, are you coming to me, water of a new life that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that a fiery sun was giving light inside my heart. It was fiery because I felt warmth as from a hearth, and sun because it gave light and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that it was God I had here inside my heart.
That music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning-- yet long untaught I did not hear; But now the chorus I hear, and am elated; A tenor, strong, ascending, with power and health, with glad notes of day-break I hear, A soprano, at intervals, sailing buoyantly over the tops of immense waves, A transparent bass, shuddering lusciously under and through the universe, The triumphant tutti--the funeral wailings, with sweet flutes and violins--all these I fill myself with; I hear not the volumes of sound merely-- I am moved by the exquisite meanings, I listen to the different voices winding in and out, striving, contending with fiery vehemence to excel each other in emotion; I do not think the performers know themselves-- but now I think I begin to know them.
I signed up for a poem-a-day with the Academy of American Poets site (link to the right) and have been receiving some gems. Here's one I particularly enjoyed.
(photo courtesy of flickr user "im pastor rick")
A Windmill Makes A Statement by Cate Marvin
You think I like to stand all day, all night, all any kind of light, to be subject only to wind? You are right. If seasons undo me, you are my season. And you are the light making off with its reflection as my stainless steel fins spin.
On lawns, on lawns we stand, we windmills make a statement. We turn air, churn air, turning always on waiting for your season. There is no lover more lover than the air. You care, you care as you twist my arms round, till my songs become popsicle
and I wing out radiants of light all across suburban lawns. You are right, the churning is for you, for you are right, no one but you I spin for all night, all day, restless for your
sight to pass across the lawn, tease grasses, because I so like how you lay above me, how I hovered beneath you, and we learned some other way to say: There you are.
You strip the cut, splice it to strips, you mill the wind, you scissor the air into ecstasy until all lawns shimmer with your bluest energy.
I know I should be all ambitious and try to post a new poem every day for the month of April, but I don't have that much energy, and if you want a poem a day, you can go to this convenient link: click.
I love it when song lyrics can be classified as poetry. Here is a video that is NOT MINE, but the background music is the song below. Courtesy of YouTube user 79cd36.
I just realized that I love this song because it has whispers of my mother in it.
Passing Afternoon by Iron & Wine
There are times that walk from you Like some passing afternoon Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon And she chose a yard to burn But the ground remembers her Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms
There are things that drift away Like our endless numbered days Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made And she's chosen to believe In the hymns her mother sings Sunday pulls its children from their piles of fallen leaves
There are sailing ships that pass All our bodies in the grass Springtime calls her children until she lets them go at last And she's chosen where to be Though she's lost her wedding ring Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds
There are things we can't recall Blind as night that finds us all Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls But my hands remember hers Rolling around the shaded ferns Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I'd never learned
There are names across the sea Only now I do believe Sometimes, with the window closed, she'll sit and think of me But she'll mend his tattered clothes And they'll kiss as if they know A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone
Skin remembers how long the years grow when skin is not touched, a gray tunnel of singleness, feather lost from the tail of a bird, swirling onto a step, swept away by someone who never saw it was a feather. Skin ate, walked, slept by itself, knew how to raise a see-you-later hand. But skin felt it was never seen, never known as a land on the map, nose like a city, hip like a city, gleaming dome of the mosque and the hundred corridors of cinnamon and rope.
Skin had hope, that's what skin does. Heals over the scarred place, makes a road. Love means you breathe in two countries. And skin remembers--silk, spiny grass, deep in the pocket that is skin's secret own. Even now, when skin is not alone, it remembers being alone and thanks something larger that there are travelers, that people go places larger than themselves.
This is a song by Jon Foreman, lead singer of Switchfoot, from his Fall-EP.
Equally Skilled from Micah 7:1-9
How miserable I am. I feel like a fruit-picker who arrived here after the harvest. There's nothing here at all, nothing at all here that could placate my hunger. The godly people are all gone; there's not one honest soul left alive here on the planet. We're all murderers and thieves, setting traps here for even our brothers.
And both of our hands are equally skilled at doing evil, equally skilled; at bribing the judges, equally skilled; at perverting justice; both of our hands, both of our hands.
The day of justice comes and is even now swiftly arriving. Don't trust anyone at all; not your best friend or even your wife. For the son hates the father; the daughter despises even her mother. Look, your enemies arrive right in the room of your very household.
And both of their hands are equally skilled at doing evil, equally skilled; at bribing the judges, equally skilled; at perverting justice; both of their hands, both of their hands.
No, don't gloat over me. Though I fall, though I fall, I will rise again. Though I sit here in darkness, the Lord, the Lord alone-- He will be my light. I will be patient as the Lord punishes me for the wrongs I've done against Him. After that, He'll take my case, bringing me to light and the justice for all I have suffered.
And both of His hands are equally skilled at ruining evil, equally skilled; at judging the judges, equally skilled; administering justice, both of His hands, both of His hands are equally skilled at showing me mercy, equally skilled; at loving the loveless, equally skilled; administering justice; both of His hands, both of His hands.
I think in the past I had run across a poem or two of Wendell Berry's in some anthology or another, but I had never stopped to drink in his poetry as it deserves. I was reminded of him by a blog I frequent whose writers moved to the country and started a small farm, mostly because of the inspiration of his work. And it is indeed beautiful.
(photo courtesy of flickr user "Fort Photo")
The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry
When despair grows in me and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting for their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
What We Need Is Here by Wendell Berry
Geese appear high over us, pass, and the sky closes. Abandon, as in love or sleep, holds them to their way, clear in the ancient faith: what we need is here. And we pray, not for new earth or heaven, but to be quiet in heart, and in eye, clear. What we need is here.
Water by Wendell Berry
I was born in a drought year. That summer my mother waited in the house, enclosed in the sun and the dry ceaseless wind, for the men to come back in the evenings, bringing water from a distant spring. Veins of leaves ran dry, roots shrank. And all my life I have dreaded the return of that year, sure that it still is somewhere, like a dead enemy's soul. Fear of dust in my mouth is always with me, and I am the faithful husband of the rain, I love the water of wells and springs and the taste of roofs in the water of cisterns. I am a dry man whose thirst is praise of clouds, and whose mind is something of a cup. My sweetness is to wake in the night after days of dry heat, hearing the rain.
I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.
"All hail!" the bells of Christmas rang, "All hail!" the monks at Christmas sang, The merry monks who kept with cheer The gladdest day of all their year.
But still apart, unmoved thereat, A pious elder brother sat Silent, in his accustomed place, With God's sweet peace upon his face.
"Why sitt'st thou thus?" his brethren cried, "It is the blessed Christmas-tide; The Christmas lights are all aglow, The sacred lilies bud and blow.
"Above our heads the joy-bells ring, Without the happy children sing, And all God's creatures hail the morn On which the holy Christ was born.
"Rejoice with us; no more rebuke Our gladness with thy quiet look." The gray monk answered, "Keep, I pray, Even as ye list, the Lord's birthday.
"Let heathen Yule fires flicker red Where thronged refectory feasts are spread; With mystery-play and masque and mime And wait-songs speed the holy time!
"The blindest faith may haply save; The Lord accepts the things we have; And reverence, howsoe'er it strays, May find at last the shining ways.
"They needs must grope who cannot see, The blade before the ear must be; As ye are feeling I have felt, And where ye dwell I too have dwelt.
"But now, beyond the things of sense, Beyond occasions and events, I know, through God's exceeding grace, Release from form and time and space.
"I listen, from no mortal tongue, To hear the song the angels sung; And wait within myself to know The Christmas lilies bud and blow.
"The outward symbols disappear From him whose inward sight is clear; And small must be the choice of days To him who fills them all with praise!
"Keep while you need it, brothers mine, With honest seal your Christmas sign, But judge not him who every morn Feels in his heart the Lord Christ born!"
the lamp is burning low upon my tabletop the snow is softly falling the air is still within the silence of my room i hear your voice softly calling
if i could only have you near to breathe a sigh or two i would be happy just to hold the hands i love upon this winter's night with you
the smoke is rising in the shadows overhead my glass is almost empty i read again between the lines upon the page the words of love you sent me
if i could know within my heart that you were lonely too i would be happy just to hold the hands i love upon this winter's night with you
the fire is dying now, the lamp is growing dim the shades of night are lifting the morning light steals across my windowpane where webs of snow are drifting
if i could only have you near to breathe a sigh or two i would be happy just to hold the hands i love and to be once again with you
before the screech and the rush of the disbanding, demanding head counts, rendezvous; before anticipation of the destination becomes the fruit of the here and now
when your common ground is the earth rolling out from under you and all of them all breathe the same air all hear the music of the sway of the rails
always the peace of the train
after tears and the drying of tears the accomplishment, abandonment, whatever purpose fulfilled after satisfaction of the obligation dissolves in the eyes of the homeward bound
when your common ground is the earth rolling out from under you and all of them all breathe the same air all hear the music of the sway of the rails
The deep parts of my life pour onward, as if the river shores were opening out. It seems that things are more like me now, That I can see farther into paintings. I feel closer to what language can't reach. With my senses, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven, out of the oak, in the ponds broken off from the sky my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.
If someone could explain why the first stanza of this poem is being attributed to Sylvia Plath on several credible websites, I'd be happy to know. I think Rossetti is a safer bet.
A Better Resurrection by Christina Rossetti
I have no wit, no words, no tears; My heart within me like a stone Is numb'd too much for hopes or fears; Look right, look left, I dwell alone; I lift mine eyes, but dimm'd with grief No everlasting hills I see; My life is in the falling leaf: O Jesus, quicken me.
My life is like a faded leaf, My harvest dwindled to a husk: Truly my life is void and brief And tedious in the barren dusk; My life is like a frozen thing, No bud nor greenness can I see: Yet rise it shall--the sap of Spring; O Jesus, rise in me.
My life is like a broken bowl, A broken bowl that cannot hold One drop of water for my soul Or cordial in the searching cold; Cast in the fire the perish'd thing; Melt and remould it, till it be A royal cup for Him, my King: O Jesus, drink of me
dancing around you like a child around a flame around a bubble everything you could mean is too fragile still, dangerous, and silent.
dancing around you like a child in the music in the hope everything you could mean is the falsetto note that turns my heart into a ringing well.
dancing around you like a child through the sunrise through the wet laundry everything you could mean runs like fresh water into a cold glass to have and to hold.
No one worth possessing Can be quite possessed; Lay that on your heart, My young angry dear; This truth, this hard and precious stone, Lay it on your hot cheek, Let it hide your tear. Hold it like a crystal When you are alone And gaze in the depths of the icy stone. Long, look long and you will be blessed: No one worth possessing Can be quite possessed.
This poem was recently referenced by a friend of mine on her blog, and I immediately fell in love with it. It's a joy to find the rare poem that deals with joy with the same zeal and precision as usually describes pain and sorrow. It takes effort to find happiness, because it usually means looking beyond ourselves, but how sweet the reward when we do.
Happiness by Jane Kenyon
There’s just no accounting for happiness, or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your feet having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive? You make a feast in honor of what was lost, and take from its place the finest garment, which you saved for an occasion you could not imagine, and you weep night and day to know that you were not abandoned, that happiness saved its most extreme form for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never knew about, who flies a single-engine plane onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes into town, and inquires at every door until he finds you asleep midafternoon as you so often are during the unmerciful hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell. It comes to the woman sweeping the street with a birch broom, to the child whose mother has passed out from drink. It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker, and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots in the night.
It even comes to the boulder in the perpetual shade of pine barrens, to rain falling on the open sea, to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
I'm on a Lisel Mueller kick. I've recently discovered more of her work, and I really, really like it. She is one of the poets to whose talents I aspire.
Toby
What the Dog Perhaps Hears by Lisel Mueller
If an inaudible whistle blown between our lips can send him home to us, then silence is perhaps the sound of spiders breathing and roots mining the earth; it may be asparagus heaving, headfirst, into the light and the long brown sound of cracked cups, when it happens. We would like to ask the dog if there is a continuous whir because the child in the house keeps growing, if the snake really stretches full length without a click and the sun breaks through clouds without a decibel of effort, whether in autumn, when the trees dry up their wells, there isn't a shudder too high for us to hear.
What is it like up there above the shut-off level of our simple ears? For us there was no birth cry, the newborn bird is suddenly here, the egg broken, the nest alive, and we heard nothing when the world changed.
I keep books of poetry as close to me as I keep my Bible. Always on my nightstand, two Bibles, one anthology. One Bible, two anthologies. Always. I don't think it's wrong or even sacrilegious. I think it was intended.
This poem might do something to explain why.
(photo courtesy of flickr user pretorious_photography)
Moon Fishing by Lisel Mueller
When the moon was full they came to the water, some with pitchforks, some with rakes, some with sieves and ladles, and one with a silver cup.
And they fished till a traveler passed them and said, "Fools, to catch the moon you must let your women spread their hair on the water-- even the wily moon will leap to that bobbing net of shimmering threads, gasp and flop till its silver scales lie black and still at your feet."
And they fished with the hair of their women till a traveler passed them and said, "Fools, do you think the moon is caught lightly, with glitter and silk threads? You must cut out your hearts and bait your hooks with those dark animals; what matter you lose your hearts to reel in your dream?"
And they fished with their tight, hot hearts till a traveler passed them and said, "Fools, what good is the moon to a heartless man? Put back your hearts and get on your knees and drink as you never have, until your throats are coated with silver and your voices ring like bells."
And they fished with their lips and tongues until the water was gone and the moon had slipped away in the soft, bottomless mud.
It hovers in dark corners before the lights are turned on, it shakes sleep from its eyes and drops from mushroom gills, it explodes in the starry heads of dandelions turned sages, it sticks to the wings of green angels that sail from the tops of maples.
It sprouts in each occluded eye of the many-eyed potato, it lives in each earthworm segment surviving cruelty, it is the motion that runs from the eyes to the tail of a dog, it is the mouth that inflates the lungs of the child that has just been born.
It is the singular gift we cannot destroy in ourselves, the argument that refutes death, the genius that invents the future, all we know of God.
It is the serum which makes us swear not to betray one another; it is in this poem, trying to speak. __________________________________________
it glistens on the petals of the pansies in the snow-frosted greenhouse...
Rarely are poems so joyously beautiful as those written about love. Only something we do not understand could bring us so much feeling. Here are two lovely ones I found.
Happy Valentine's Day
When You Are Old by W.B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
A Birthday by Christina Rossetti
My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a daïs of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.
