Poem for 12/30/22 - The Need Is So Great by Jim Moore

 

The Need Is So Great

Jim Moore

Sometimes I just sit like this at the window and watch the darkness come. If I’m smart, I’ll put on Bach. I’m thinking now of how far it always seems there is to go. Maybe it is too easy that I speak so often of late last light on a December day, of that stubborn grass that somehow still remains green behind the broken chain link fence on the corner. But the need is so great for the way light looks as it takes its leave of us. We say what we can to each other of these things, we who are such thieves, stealing first one breath and then the next. Bach, keep going just this slowly, show me the way to believe that what matters in this world has already happened and will go on happening forever. The way light falls on the last of the stricken leaves of the copper beech at the end of the block is something to behold.

Poem for 12/28/22 - Why Are Your Poems so Dark? by Linda Pastan

 Why Are Your Poems so Dark?

BY LINDA PASTAN

Isn't the moon dark too,

most of the time?

And doesn't the white page

seem unfinished

without the dark stain

of alphabets?

When God demanded light,

he didn't banish darkness.

Instead he invented

ebony and crows

and that small mole

on your left cheekbone.

Or did you mean to ask

"Why are you sad so often?"

Ask the moon.

Ask what it has witnessed.

Poem for 12/27/22 - In the Shadows by Rami Shapiro

In the Shadows

by Rami Shapiro

I live my life in the shadows:

shadows of doubt,

shadows of regret,

shadows of guilt,

shadows of half baked ideas

and overcooked ones.

There is nothing wrong

with living in the shadows.

Living in the dark, however,

is something else.

Living in the shadows

you know there is light.

Living in the dark

you know nothing of light.

Living in the shadows

you can always walk

toward the light.

Living in the dark

there is no light

toward which to walk.

Assist those who

live in the shadows.

Resist those who

live in the dark.

Poem for 12/26/22 - "Open your eyes to the four streams..." by Rumi, translated by Haleh Liza Gafori

Open your eyes to the four streams

by Rumi, translated by Haleh Liza Gafori

Listen to an interview with the translator here.

Open your eyes to the four streams

flowing through you-

water, milk, honey, wine.

Pay no attention to what gossips say.

They call the wide-eyed flower jasmine.

They call the wide-eyed flower a thorn.

The wide-eyed flower doesn't care what they call it.

I Adore that freedom. I bow to it.

Some say you worship fire.

Some say you follow scripture.

What do they know?

Labels blind and tear us apart.

Your eyes are not a vulture's beak.

See through the Beloved's eyes.

See one when your mind says two.

The angels adore your Love-drunk eyes.

Open them

and dismiss the vicious judge

from the post you gave him.

Bow to a human

and greet the angel.

(Here's another version I found on the internet--always interesting to compare translations from languages I do not read!)

Your first eyes

A lover has four streams inside,
of water, wine, honey and milk.

Find those in yourself and pay no attention
what so-and-so says about such-and-such.

The rose does not care
if someone calls it a thorn, or a jasmine.

Ordinary eyes categorize human beings.
That one is Zoroastrian. This one, Muslim.

Walk instead with the other vision given you, your first eyes.
Do not squint and do not stare blankly like a vulture.

Those who love fire fall in the fire.
A fly slips from the edge into the whey.

If you are in love with the infinite,
why grieve over the ground washing away in the rain?

Bow to the essence in a human being.
A desert drinks war-blood,
but if it knew this secret, springs would rise, rose gardens.

Do not be content with judging people good and bad.
Grow out of that. The great blessing is
that Shams has poured a strength into the ground
that lets us wait and trust the waiting.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Version by Coleman Barks

Poem for 12/22/22 - "the earth is a living thing" by Lucille Clifton

I found reference to this poem in a provocative blog post by rabbinical student and S'vara Fellow Kendra Watkins. You can find their essay here. 

the earth is a living thing

Lucille Clifton - 1936-2010

is a black shambling bear ruffling its wild back and tossing mountains into the sea

is a black hawk circling 
the burying ground circling the bones
picked clean and discarded

is a fish black blind in the belly of water
is a diamond blind in the black belly of coal

is a black and living thing 
is a favorite child
of the universe
feel her rolling her hand
in its kinky hair
feel her brushing it clean

Poem for 12/21/22 - AIMLESS LOVE by Billy Collins

 

AIMLESS LOVE

by Billy Collins

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
 
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
 
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
 
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
 
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
 
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
 
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
 
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
 
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
 
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

Poem for 12/20/22 - Miracles by Walt Whitman

 

Miracles

Walt Whitman - 1819-1892

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the
        ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

Poem for 12/19/22 - Winter: A Dirge by Robert Burns

 

Winter: A Dirge

Robert Burns

The wintry west extends his blast,    And hail and rain does blaw; Or, the stormy north sends driving forth    The blinding sleet and snaw: While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,    And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest,    And pass the heartless day. “The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,”    The joyless winter-day Let others fear, to me more dear    Than all the pride of May: The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,    My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please,    Their fate resembles mine! Thou Power Supreme whose mighty scheme    These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest; they must be best,    Because they are Thy will! Then all I want—O do Thou grant    This one request of mine.— Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,    Assist me to resign.

Poem for 12/14/22 - A Sepia Photograph by Ted Kooser

A SEPIA PHOTOGRAPH

by Ted Kooser, from A Man with a Rake (2022)

Light brushes coats of brown varnish

over the past, lets each coat dry

for a generation before adding another.

Who were these two people, the man

standing just to her side, his hand

on her shoulder? They've ridden up

to the front of this oval of walnut

and glass on an uncomfortable bench

like those on a Ferris wheel, with

younger couples out of sight but

swinging down and in behind,

and they've rocked to a stop, the man

stepping off and now waiting for her,

while she gathers her skirts and tries to

recall where she set down her smile.

Poem for 12/13/22 - A Helper of Hearts by Rumi

 A Helper of Hearts

by Rumi, from: The Forbidden Rumi, translated by Nevit O. Ergin and Will Johnson

Don't look down on the heart,

even if it's not behaving well.

Even in that shape, the heart

is more precious than the teachings

of the exalted saints.

The broken heart is where God looks.

How lucky is the soul that mends the heart!

For God, consoling the heart

that is broken into hundreds of pieces

is better than going on pilgrimage.

God's treasures are buried in ruined hearts.

If you put on the belt of service

and serve hearts

like a slave or servant,

the roads to all the secrets

will open before your eyes.

If you want peace and glory,

forget about your earthly honors

and try to please the hearts.

If you become

a helper of hearts,

springs of wisdom

will flow from your heart.

The water of life will run from your mouth

like a torrent.

Your breath will become medicine

like the breath of Jesus.

Be silent.

Even if you have two hundred tongues

in each hair on your head,

you won't be able to explain

the heart.

Poem for 12/8/22 - An Ordinary Morning by Jo Harjo

 

An Ordinary Morning

By Jo Harjo

August 1, 2022

We left for the park a little later than usual,
My old father and I, though
We knew the war was on us. Blood hunger
Has an endless stomach. I wanted to keep
The morning from its mouth. He
Needed his walk to soften his joints.
And we had a daily appointment with the birds.

New green was peeking from the winter earth.
The birds who had not scattered to the forests after
The first detonations kept to their early-spring
Rituals. Like us, they were beginning to sing
Their spring songs and were making new ones.

We could not let war steal everything.

In the park, my old father, hobbled by an older
War, by worries over the evil let loose
Among us, found joy in watching the children,
Feeding the birds, and telling the stories
He never tired of—and for us who loved him,
Well, those old stories made a circle
Of knowledge and affection.

We bought a loaf of bread.
The baker stayed on to help keep the ritual of our lives
Fastened into place. Our genealogies of bones
Are stacked in the graveyard, and live
In the stories we shared this morning, the baker and us.

We will go on, even if there is only one standing
In a sea of blood and loss, one who will tell
The story of who we were and how we fought
For an ordinary morning like this one.

When the earth was beginning to wake
From its cold season.

Old father, you tore off a piece of bread
For the birds gathered at your feet.
They knew to find us here,
This park bench, this prayer of blessing
For the continuum of living.

The fire took you first, old father.
I was stunned.
The sun exploded.
Then I was gone, following you
The way I always did,
First with my eyes, then
When I learned to toddle:

A bird with breadcrumbs in its beak
Fled to the top of the closest
Standing tree.
My mother, your wife,
Was a girl again.
Then you left the wedding feast
As you walked hand in hand
To begin a story.

I was a thought in the shape
Of a spring flower
Emerging from a blood-soaked earth.

How we lived, and lived, and lived
And loved our living.

We did not want to let it go.

Published in the print edition of the August 8, 2022, issue.

Poem for 12/6/22 - At Sixty-Five by Henri Cole

 

At Sixty-Five

Henri Cole

It was all so different than he expected. For years he’d been agnostic; now he meditated. For years he’d dreamed of being an artist living abroad; now he reread Baudelaire, Emerson, Bishop. He’d never considered marriage . . . Still, a force through green did fuse. Yes, he wore his pants looser. No, he didn’t do crosswords in bed. No, he didn’t file for Social Security. Yes, he danced alone in the bathroom mirror, since younger men expected generosity. Long ago, his thesis had been described as promising, “with psychological heat and the consuming will of nature.” Now he thought, “This then is all.” On the rooftop, in pale flickering moonlight, he pondered the annihilated earth. At the pond, half-a-mile across was not too far to swim because he seemed to be going toward something. Yes, the love impulse had frequently revealed itself in terms of conflict; but this was an old sound, an austere element. Yes, he’d been no angel and so what . . . Yes, tiny moths emerged from the hall closet. Yes, the odor of kombucha made him sick. Yes, he lay for hours pondering the treetops, the matriarchal clouds, the moon. Though his spleen collected melancholy trophies, his imagination was not impeded.

Copyright © 2022 by Henri Cole. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 5, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

Poem for 12/5/22 - Matisse's Dance by Natalie Safir

 

Matisse’s Dance (1990)

Natalie Safir (1935-)

 

A break in the circle dance of naked women,

dropped stitch between the hands

of the slender figure stretching too hard

to reach her joyful sisters.

 

Spirals of glee sail from the arms

of the tallest woman.  She pulls

the circle around with her fire.

What has she found that she doesn’t

keep losing, her torso

a green-burning torch?

 

Grass mounds curve ripely beneath

two others who dance beyond the blue.

Breasts swell and multiply and

rhythms rise to a gallop.

 

Hurry, frightened one and grab on--before

the stich is forever lost, before the dance unravels and a black sun swirls from that space.