Poem for 3/31/22 - Psalm 1 translated by Norman Fischer

 Psalm 1: A Zen-Inspired Translation

Norman Fischer, Opening to You

 

Happy is the one who walks otherwise

Who stands otherwise

Than in the way of the twisted

Who does not sit in the seat of the scornful

But finds delight in the loveliness of things

And lives by that pattern all day and all night—

 

For this one is like a tree planted near a stream

That gives forth strong fruit in season

And whose leaf doesn’t wither

And whose branches spread wide—

 

Not so the heedless

 

They are like chaff scattered by the wind

Endlessly driven, they cannot occupy their place

And so can never be seen or embraced

And they can never be joined

 

What you see is always lovely and remembered

But the way of heedlessness is oblivion

Poem for 3/30/22 - On A Painting By Wang the Clerk of Yen Ling by Su Tung P'O

 Su Tung P'O (1036-1101) - On A Painting By Wang The Clerk Of Yen Ling

(Translated from the Chinese by Kenneth Rexroth)

The slender bamboo is like a hermit.

The simple flower is like a maiden.

The sparrow tilts on the branch.

A gust of rain sprinkles the flowers.

He spreads his wings to fly

And shakes all the leaves.

The bees gathering honey

Are trapped in the nectar.

What a wonderful talent

That can create an entire Spring

With a brush and a sheet of paper.

If he would try poetry

I know he would be a master of words.

Poem for 3/29/22 - B'reishit (In the Beginning) by Primo Levi

Thanks to Michal Goldman for sending me this poem.

In the Beginning

Fellow-humans, to whom a year is a long time,

A century a venerable goal,

Struggling for your bread,

Tired, fretful, tricked, sick, lost:

Listen, and may it be a mockery and consolation.

Twenty billion years before how, *

Brilliant, soaring in space and time,

There was a ball of flame, solitary, eternal,

Our common father and our executioner.

It exploded, and every change began.

Even now the thin echo of this one reverse catastrophe

Resounds from the farthest reaches.

From that one spasm everything was born:

The same abyss that enfolds and challenges us,

The same time that spawns and defeats us,

Everything anyone has ever thought,

The eyes of every woman we have loved,

Suns by the thousands

And this hand that writes.

                                    13 August, 1970

                                    Translated by Ruth Feldman & Brian Swann

* The text I received reads "how" - I wonder--without needing to know so badly that I track it down--if it should read "now..."

Poem/Prayer for 3/28/22 - Al-Mu'id - from Divine Names by Rosina-Fawzia Al-Rawi

from Divine Names: The 99 Healing Names of the One Love by Rosina-Fawzia Al-Rawi (trans. Monique Arav)

My dear friends Raana Mumtaz and Faiza Khan gave me a wonderful gift of a book of Arabic calligraphy with 99 names of Allah, along with explanatory essays. I thought I would share excerpts of one of the essays.

Al-Mu'id - The Restorer, the One who brings back, the One who leads back.

[This name derives from a verse from the Koran:]

Sura al-Buruj (The Great Constellations - 85:13)

Behold, it is He who creates [man] in the first instance (mubdi'), and He [it is who] will bring him forth anew (mui'id).

These two Divine Names (mubdi' and mui'id) connect us above all with the movements of nature and the miracles that surround us every day...

People who worry a lot, and fill their heart with constant sadness and pictures of imagined catastrophes, open with this name a space that helps them become free of this burden...

Human beings were made of extremely primitive elements, and they gradually developed into highly complex beings who are not only endowed with a physical body but also with a spirit, with feelings, and with instincts. 

The idea of resurrection exists in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. The Sufis understand resurrection symbolically. They see it as the dissolution of the I in His light, the dissolution of the tension of duality between good and evil in which the soul embedded in the world lives, and the experience of Unity, of the creative force through which everything concrete exists...

O Allah, remind us of what we have forgotten,

grant us knowledge of that which we do not know yet,

and let every new day lend more kindness and compassion to our deeds

so that our end may be better than our beginning!

Poem for 3/25/22 - Little by little, wean yourself... by Jelaluddin Rumi

 

Jelaluddin Rumi (1207-1273)

Little by little, wean yourself.

 

This is the gist of what I have to say.

 

From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood,

move to an infant drinking milk,

to a child on solid food,

to a searcher after wisdom,

to a hunter of more invisible game.

 

Think how it is to have a conversation with an embryo.

You might say, "The world outside is vast and intricate.

There are wheatfields and mountain passes,

and orchards in bloom.

 

At night there are millions of galaxies, and in sunlight

the beauty of friends dancing at a wedding."

 

You ask the embryo why he, or she, stays cooped up

in the dark with eyes closed.

 

                   *

                                     *

                                                              *

                                                                                 Listen to the answer.

There is no "other world."

I only know what I've experienced.

You must be hallucinating.

• translated by Coleman Barks

Poem for 3/24/22 - The Birth of Language - Lucille Clifton

I chose this poem in honor of CCB's current rabbinic intern, Giulia Fleischman, who introduced me to Lucille Clifton's poetry and who is teaching about midrashic poetry today. 

 Lucille Clifton

the birth of language (from Quilting, 1991)

and adam rose

fearful in the garden

without words

for the grass

his fingers plucked

without a tongue

to name the taste

shimmering in his mouth

did they draw blood

the blades    did it become

his early lunge

toward language

did his astonishment

surround him

did he shudder

did he whisper

eve

Poem for 3/23/22 - The Pact - by Victoria Redel

 

The Pact

Victoria Redel

All those years—paw of again, paw of let’s go,  of lake-plash, of come throw, perked ear of what’s that? of yanked back who’s that? unsettled pacer of storms, investigator of grass, distinguished scholar of curbside, delighted roller in the perfume of foul, sleek  fetcher, sock chewer, under table sleeper, taut leaper into air & pond—then, all at once, it became her turn & the reliable  body began—the unimaginable undoing;  while we—scratchers of belly & ear, callers of hey,  come back, diligent trainers of down & come, companions of dawn, partners of rain, & errand, stick throwers, ball wranglers,  chair readers & nappers, while at our feet with twitch & yelp, she rustles through the high grass of dream— understood it was now our turn,  which meant—as it does with each animal sorrow —doing the unimaginable.

Copyright © 2022 by Victoria Redel. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 21, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

Poem for 3/22/22 - Neither by Samuel Beckett

 Samuel Beckett: Neither

to and fro in shadow from inner to outer shadow

from impenetrable self to impenetrable unself
by way of neither

as between two lit refuges whose doors once
neared gently close, once away turned from
gently part again

beckoned back and forth and turned away

heedless of the way, intent on the one gleam
or the other

unheard footfalls only sound

till at last halt for good, absent for good
from self and other

then no sound

then gently light unfading on that unheeded
neither

unspeakable home

Poem for 3/21/22 - from “Estrangement” by W.B. Yeats

 W.B. Yeats

from “Estrangement” 

VI

My father says, ‘A man does not love a woman because he thinks her clever or because he admires her, but because he likes the way she has of scratching her head’.

VII

It seems to me that true love is a discipline, and it needs so much wisdom that the love of Solomon and Sheba must have lasted, for all the silence of the Scriptures. Each divines the secret self of the other, and refusing to believe in the mere daily self, creates a mirror where the love or the beloved sees an image to copy in daily life; for love also creates the Mask.

Poems for 3/18 - 3 Poems by Emily Dickinson

 3 Poems by Emily Dickinson

 

(341)

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –

The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’

And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?

 

The Feet, mechanical, go round –

A Wooden way

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –

Regardless grown,

A Quartz contentment, like a stone –

 

This is the Hour of Lead –

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –

First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

c. 1862

(1051)

I cannot meet the Spring unmoved—

I feel the old desire—

A Hurry with a lingering, mixed,

A Warrant to be fair—

 

A Competition in my sense

With something hid in Her—

And as she vanishes, Remorse

I saw no more of Her.

c. 1865

 

(1320)

Dear March—Come in—

How glad I am—

I hoped for you before—

Put down your Hat—

You must have walked—

How out of Breath you are—

Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—

Did you leave Nature well—

Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—

I have so much to tell—

 

I got your Letter, and the Birds—

The Maples never knew that you were coming—

I declare - how Red their Faces grew—

But March, forgive me—

And all those Hills you left for me to Hue—

There was no Purple suitable—

You took it all with you—

 

Who knocks? That April—

Lock the Door—

I will not be pursued—

He stayed away a Year to call

When I am occupied—

But trifles look so trivial

As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise

And Praise as mere as Blame—

c. 1874

Poem for 3/17 - In Praise of My Sister by Wisława Szymborska

The first version of Szymborka's poem here was translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh.

The version I read on the audio blog was different, translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire. You'll find that version after the first.

In Praise of My Sister

Wisława Szymborska

My sister doesn’t write poems.
and it’s unlikely that she’ll suddenly start writing poems.
She takes after her mother, who didn’t write poems,
and also her father, who likewise didn’t write poems.
I feel safe beneath my sister’s roof:
my sister’s husband would rather die than write poems.
And, even though this is starting to sound as repetitive as
Peter Piper,
the truth is, none of my relatives write poems.

My sister’s desk drawers don’t hold old poems,
and her handbag doesn’t hold new ones,
When my sister asks me over for lunch,
I know she doesn’t want to read me her poems.
Her soups are delicious without ulterior motives.
Her coffee doesn’t spill on manuscripts.

There are many families in which nobody writes poems,
but once it starts up it’s hard to quarantine.
Sometimes poetry cascades down through the generations,
creating fatal whirlpools where family love may founder.

My sister has tackled oral prose with some success.
but her entire written opus consists of postcards from
vacations
whose text is only the same promise every year:
when she gets back, she’ll have
so much
much
much to tell.

In Praise of My Sister

Wisława Szymborska

My sister does not write poems
and it's unlikely she'll suddenly start writing poems.
She takes after her mother, who did not write poems,
and her father, who also did not write poems.
Under my sister's roof I feel safe:
nothing would move my sister's husband to write poems.
And though it sounds like a poem by Adam Macedoński,
none of my relatives is engaged in the writing of poems.

In my sister's desk there are no old poems
nor any new ones in her handbag.
And when my sister invites me to dinner,
I know she has no intention of reading me poems.
She makes superb soups without half trying,
and her coffee does not spill on manuscripts.

In many families no one writes poems,
but when they do, it's seldom just one person.
Sometimes poetry flows in cascades of generations,
which sets up fearsome eddies in family relations.

My sister cultivates a decent spoken prose,
her entire literary output is on vacation postcards
that promise the same thing every year:
that when she returns,
she'll tell us, everything,
everything,
everything.

Poem for 3/16 - a song in the front yard (from A Street in Bronzeville) by Gwendolyn Brooks

 a song in the front yard

BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS

I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life.

I want a peek at the back

Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows.   

A girl gets sick of a rose.

I want to go in the back yard now   

And maybe down the alley,

To where the charity children play.   

I want a good time today.

They do some wonderful things.

They have some wonderful fun.

My mother sneers, but I say it’s fine

How they don’t have to go in at quarter to nine.   

My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae   

Will grow up to be a bad woman.

That George’ll be taken to Jail soon or late

(On account of last winter he sold our back gate).

But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.

And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,

And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace   

And strut down the streets with paint on my face.

Poem for 3/15/22 - One Way or Another by Maya C. Popa

 

One Way or Another

Maya C. Popa

it is you who leaves. So I set out  to read for signs of imminence,  the same river twice stepped in. Morning rises gently on the harbor; our letters come disguised as life.  We know the score but fracture  on fact. We sign a dotted line  made out of promise—the pipes  in November clanging on with heat, the window left at night a little open.  I love you; then what? Hands  suddenly alive. I plead with time,  adamant, remorseless. So we begin  in earnest; what then? I plead  with time, adamant, remorseless. Hands suddenly alive. I love you;  then what? The pipes in November  clanging on with heat, the window  left at night a little open. We sign  a dotted line made out of promise— we know the score but fracture  on fact. Our letters come disguised  as life; morning rises gently on  the harbor. So I set out to read  for signs of imminence, the same  river twice stepped in. One way  or another, it is you who leaves.

Copyright © 2022 by Maya C. Popa. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 15, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

Poem for 3/14 - Cloud Demolition by Willa Carroll

 

Cloud Demolition

Willa Carroll

Anvil clouds in the west. My father dies in hospice while I’m on the highway, stuck in roadwork.  Gaunt on the gurney. Limbs impossibly still. Mouth slightly open,  as if surprised, as if saying  ah! One eye half closed,  the other looking up, lit by a further light, a sky in the ceiling.  I touch his hand, barely  cool. It’s only been  an hour. At the elevator,  I’m not ready to drop  down the bright chute. I go back. Bend & kiss his hand. Outside, long soft nails hammer the earth.

Copyright © 2022 by Willa Carroll. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 7, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

Poem for 3/11 - It Is Marvellous... by Elizabeth Bishop

 It Is Marvellous . . .

by Elizabeth Bishop

 

It is marvellous to wake up together

At the same minute; marvellous to hear

The rain begin suddenly all over the roof,

To feel the air clear

As if electricity had passed through it

From a black mesh of wires in the sky.

All over the roof the rain hisses,

And below, the light falling of kisses.

 

An electrical storm is coming or moving away;

It is the prickling air that wakes us up.

If lightning struck the house now, it would run

From the four blue china balls on top

Down the roof and down the rods all around us,

And we imagine dreamily

How the whole house caught in a bird-cage of lightning

Would be quite delightful rather than frightening;

 

And from the same simplified point of view

Of night and lying flat on one's back

All things might change equally easily,

Since always to warn us there must be these black

Electrical wires dangling. Without surprise

The world might change to something quite different,

As the air changes or the lightning comes without our blinking,

Change as our kisses are changing without our thinking.