Category: poems

Wednesday Poem

Karen1 Comment

Here’s a prose poem’s way of saying the favorite hippie phrase, “Everything is exactly the way it should be.”

 

Looking for the Differences

by Tom Hennen

I am struck by the otherness of things rather than their same-
ness. The way a tiny pile of snow perches in the crook of a
branch in the tall pine, away by itself, high enough not to be
noticed by people, out of reach of stray dogs. It leans against
the scaly pine bark, busy at some existence that does not
need me.

It is the differences of objects that I love, that lift me toward
the rest of the universe, that amaze me. That each thing on
earth has its own soul, its own life, that each tree, each clod is
filled with the mud of its own star. I watch where I step and see
that the fallen leaf, old broken grass, an icy stone are placed in
exactly the right spot on the earth, carefully, royalty in their
own country.

Juice and Joy

Karen

It was a beautiful spring weekend here: some trees are leafing out, some others are blooming, the foothills are getting green, and the robins have started singing in the mornings and evening (they do “so rinse and wring the ear”). I thought of the first line of this poem yesterday evening so here it is for your Monday.

(I’m only leaving the second stanza in for the line “all this juice and all this joy”–I can live without original sin in  my sonnets, but Hopkins was a priest so there you go.)

Spring

BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –
   When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
   Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
   The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
   The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
   A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,
   Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
   Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.

Mary Oliver Interviewed

Karen

Mary Oliver, media-shy and often quoted around here, gave an interview and short reading to the radio show On Being recently, which you can find right here. She talks a little more about her early life (“I got saved by the beauty of the world”) and her recent move to Florida, but the most exciting things for me were her talking about her new work. She quotes from the beginning of a new poem:

“Things take the time they take. don’t worry. How many roads did St. Augustine follow before he became St. Augustine?”

Perfect.

My second favorite part? Her reading of “Wild Geese.”

Spring Poem

Karen

I still feel like the winter we mostly avoided here could come back and hit us with snow in, say, May–but the Equinox is tomorrow and it’s going to be above 60 all weekend. I think a spring poem with rhythm and rhyme will work.

 

Greeting to Spring (Not Without Trepidation)

by Robert Lax

Over the back of the Florida basker,
over the froth of the Firth of Forth,
Up from Tahiti and Madagascar,
Lo, the sun walks north.

The first bright day makes sing the slackers
While leaves explode like firecrackers,
The duck flies forth to greet the spring
And sweetly municipal pigeons sing.

Where the duck quacks, where the bird sings,
We will speak of past things.

Come out with your marbles, come out with your Croup,
The grass is as green as a Girl Scout troop;
In the Mall the stone acoustics stand
Like a listening ear for the Goldman band.

At an outside table, where the sun’s bright glare is,
We will speak of darkened Paris.

Meanwhile, like attendants who hasten the hoofs
Of the ponies who trot in the shadow of roofs,
The sun, in his running, will hasten the plan
Of plants and fishes, beast and man.

We’ll turn our eyes to the sogging ground
And guess if the earth is cracked or round.

Over the plans of the parties at strife,
Over the planes in the waiting north,
Over the average man and his wife,
Lo, the sun walks forth!

Happy Birthday, Jack Kerouac

Karen

6a010535ce1cf6970c019b004f4759970bIt’s the birthday of the cat-loving man who defined the Beat Generation (and he doesn’t even get a Google Doodle? come on!). It was lines like this in The Dharma Bums that encouraged my inner hippie, starting back in high school:

“The closer you get to real matter, rock air fire and wood, boy, the more spiritual the world is.”

Thursday Poem

Karen

A poem about stargazing and mountain climbing? Check and check.

Mountain Day
by W. S. Merwin

With one dear friend we go up the highest mountain
thousands of feet into the birdless snow
and listen to our breaths in the still air
for a long time beside the observatories
later we stretch out on the dark crumbled
lava slope looking
west at the sun yellowing the clouds below
then go down past the wild cows to the cabin
getting there just before sunset
and eat by the fire laughing at what we have
forgotten to bring
afterward we come out and lie
braided together looking up
at Cassiopeia over the foothill.

 

Wednesday Poem

Karen

In honor of Valentine’s Day coming up, here’s the delightful Billy Collins giving us his kind of love poem. The second and third stanzas are pretty much perfect:

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 stopped 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.

 

Wednesday Poem

Karen2 Comments

I am 35. I would be a liar if I said I didn’t think about kids and how/if one would fit into my life. I like how this poem ends; kind of how I think about the whole concept in general.

 

Spelling Bee

In the spelling bee my daughter wore a good
brown dress and kept her hands folded.
There were twelve children speaking

into a microphone that was taller than
they were. Each time it was her turn
I could barely look. It wasn’t that I wanted

her to win but I hoped she would be
happy with herself. The words were too hard
for me; I would have missed chemical,

thermos, and dessert. Each time she spelled
one correctly my heart became a bird.
She once fluttered so restlessly beneath

my skin and, on the morning of her arrival,
her little red hands held nothing.
Her life since has been a surprise: she can

sew; she can draw; she can read. She hates
raisins but loves science. All the parents
must feel this, watching from the cheap

folding chairs. Somewhere inside them
love took shape and now
it stands at the microphone, spelling.

Wednesday Poem

Karen

There isn’t any snow left in the valley, but this still applies to the mountains. I like to think of the “dens full of the sleeping” when I’m up hiking.

 

Winter Grace

by Patricia Fargnoli

If you have seen the snow
under the lamppost
piled up like a white beaver hat on the picnic table
or somewhere slowly falling
into the brook
to be swallowed by water,
then you have seen beauty
and know it for its transience.
And if you have gone out in the snow
for only the pleasure
of walking barely protected
from the galaxies,
the flakes settling on your parka
like the dust from just-born stars,
the cold waking you
as if from long sleeping,
then you can understand
how, more often than not,
truth is found in silence,
how the natural world comes to you
if you go out to meet it,
its icy ditches filled with dead weeds,
its vacant birdhouses, and dens
full of the sleeping.
But this is the slowed-down season
held fast by darkness
and if no one comes to keep you company
then keep watch over your own solitude.
In that stillness, you will learn
with your whole body
the significance of cold
and the night,
which is otherwise always eluding you.