When despair for the world grows
in me
and I wake in 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 with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and
am free.
--Wendell Berry
Sometimes
if you move carefully
through the forest
breathing
like the ones
in the old stories
who could cross
a shimmering bed of dry leaves
without a sound,
you come
to a place
whose only task
is to trouble you
with tiny
but frightening requests
conceived out of nowhere
but in this place
beginning to lead everywhere.
Requests to stop what
you are doing right now,
and
to stop what you
are becoming
while you do it,
questions
that can make
or unmake
a life,
questions
that have patiently
waited for you,
questions
that have no right
to go away.
~ David Whyte ~
(Everything is Waiting for You)
Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who made the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crotchety –
best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light –
good morning, good morning, good morning.
Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.
~ Mary Oliver ~
Everything is Waiting for You
Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
-- David Whyte from Everything is Waiting for You ©2003 Many Rivers Press
"if i can't do
what i want to do
then my job is to not
do what i don't want
to do
"it's not the same thing
but it's the best i can
do
"if i can't have
what i want then
my job is to want
what i've got
and be satisfied
that at least there
is something more
to want
"since i can't go
where i need
to go then i must go
where the signs point
though always understanding
parallel movement
isn't lateral
"when i can't express
what i really feel
i practice feeling
what i can express
and none of it is equal
i know
but that's why mankind
alone among the animals
learns to cry"
-Nikki Giovanni
This is from a great interview with Bil Moyers - transcript/video here.
“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!”
by John Greenleaf Whittier
This was the "poem of the day" in my email. Merry Christmas, everyone!
by Lisel Mueller
Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is builtof parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
As usual, my ponderings resulted in an interesting coincidence. I've been thinking a lot about how so often cultures/peoples stake their claim on their religion being the "true" one. Someone at meeting quoted this beautiful poem of Hafiz to me yesterday:
Would You Think It Odd? (Hafiz)
Would you think it odd if Hafiz said,
"I am in love with every church
And mosque
And temple
And any kind of shrine
Because I know it is there
That the people say the different names
Of the One God"
Would you tell your friends
I was a bit strange if I admitted
I am indeed in love with every mind
And heart and body.
O I am sincerely
Plumb crazy
About your every thought and yearning
And limb
Because, my dear,
I know
That it is through these
That you search for him.
Why i just need to read more poetry:
Adage by Billy Collins
When it’s late at night and branches
are banging against the windows,
you might think that love is just a matter
.
of leaping out of the frying pan of yourself
into the fire of someone else,
but it’s a little more complicated than that.
.
It’s more like trading the two birds
who might be hiding in that bush
for the one you are not holding in your hand.
.
A wise man once said that love
was like forcing a horse to drink
but then everyone stopping thinking of him as wise.
.
Let us be clear about something.
Love is not as simple as getting up
on the wrong side of the bed wearing the emperor’s clothes.
.
No, it’s more like the way the pen
feels after it has defeated the sword.
It’s a little like the penny saved or the nine dropped
stitches.
.
You look at me through the halo of the last candle
and tell me love is an ill wind
that has no turning, a road that blows no good,
.
but I am here to remind you,
as our shadows tremble on the walls,
that love is the early bird who is better late than never.
