Poem for 4/26/23 - Throwing Children by Ross Gay

I received this poem in my inbox this morning and had to share it (even if just to the few folks who even glance at this blog). Not only does it resonate with my own experience of tossing my children into the air and catching them every time, it also seems to capture something of what we do when we connect joyfully with others, whether in conversation, music, play, or romance--we throw one another as high as we possibly can while promising to make the catch, even we know that part of the thrill comes from not being certain we will actually connect on the way down...

Throwing Children

Ross Gay

It is really something when a kid who has a hard time becomes a kid who’s having a good time in no small part thanks to you throwing that kid in the air again and again on a mile long walk home from the Indian joint as her mom looks sideways at you like you don’t need to keep doing this because you’re pouring with sweat and breathing a little bit now you’re getting a good workout but because the kid laughs like a horse up there laughs like a kangaroo beating her wings against the light because she laughs like a happy little kid and when coming down and grabbing your forearm to brace herself for the time when you will drop her which you don’t and slides her hand into yours as she says for the fortieth time the fiftieth time inexhaustible her delight again again again and again and you say give me til the redbud tree or give me til the persimmon tree because she knows the trees and so quiet you almost can’t hear through her giggles she says ok til the next tree when she explodes howling yanking your arm from the socket again again all the wolves and mourning doves flying from her tiny throat and you throw her so high she lives up there in the tree for a minute she notices the ants organizing on the bark and a bumblebee carousing the little unripe persimmon in its beret she laughs and laughs as she hovers up there like a bumblebee like a hummingbird up there giggling in the light like a giddy little girl up there the world knows how to love.

Copyright © 2023 by Ross Gay. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 26, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.

Poem for 4/19/23 - “The Creation Story” - by Joy Harjo

 My apologies for the long silence! Passover knocked me for a loop and then it's been difficult to get myself back in the flow... hoping that will be temporary!

“The Creation Story” 

Joy Harjo

I’m not afraid of love

or its consequence of light.

 

It’s not easy to say this

or anything when my entrails

dangle between paradise

and fear.

 

I am ashamed

I never had the words

to carry a friend from her death

to the stars

correctly.

 

Or the words to keep

my people safe

from drought

or gunshot.

 

The stars who were created by words

are circling over this house

formed of calcium, of blood

 

this house

in danger of being torn apart

by stones of fear.

 

If these words can do anything

if these songs can do anything

I say bless this house

with stars.

 

Transfix us with love.

 

 

Reprinted from The Woman Who Fell from the Sky by Joy Harjo. Copyright © 1994 by Joy Harjo.

Poem for 4/11/23 - Don’t Hesitate by Mary Oliver

A friend pointed me to this poem--very grateful for it.

Don’t Hesitate

BY MARY OLIVER

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case.
Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

Poems for 4/10/23 - Three Poems by Billy Collins

Three Poems by Billy Collins (from his book, Musical Tables).

Junior Philosopher

I'll have this figured out in no time,
he announced,
as he faced the Cosmic Void.
He was wearing
a clean white shirt
and holding
the tool kit of reason
by its handy leather strap.

Zen Backfire

The only time
I cut myself shaving

Is when I'm aware
that I'm shaving.

Neighborhood

What do I care
that they're tearing down
the nice old houses
and putting up brutal ones?

Before very long,
I'll just be a breeze
blowing around town,
trying to avoid all the wind chimes.

Poem for 3/30/23 - "My brother brought war to our crippled home" by Boris Khersonsky

Published on the website: https://www.wordsforwar.com/

My brother brought war to our crippled home.

by Boris Khersonsky

My brother brought war to our crippled home.
War, a little girl, hair tied in bow — she can barely walk on her own,
my brother says, she can stay with you, we’ll go out, we’ll hit the road,
she’s so little, she can’t keep up, can’t roam around alone!

My brother left, but war stayed, and she really is small.
She tried to help around the house, she swept the floor and all,
but she is sort of weird, she pokes around in the corner,
takes junk out of grandma’s oak chests in no particular order.

At night she’s restless — and we have no peace.
She keeps silent — we’ve had no days worse than these.
The windows are broken. It is too cold to stir.
And my brother still hasn’t come back for her . . .

Translated from the Russian by Olga Livshin and Andrew Janco

Брат привел войну в наш искалеченный дом. . .

Брат привел войну в наш искалеченный дом,
война – это девочка с бантом, ходит с трудом,
брат говорит – пусть у вас поживет, а мы погуляем, пойдем,
она у нас еще маленькая, не мокнуть же ей под дождем!

Брат ушел, а война осталась, и вправду она мала,
хотела помочь в хозяйстве, в кухне пол подмела,
сама какая–то странная, шарится по углам,
из бабушкиных сундуков тащит ненужный хлам.

А ночью не спит – и нам не уснуть вместе с ней.
А днем все молчит – и не было здесь печальнее дней.
Выбиты в окнах стекла, Выстужено жилье.
И брат все никак не придет, чтоб увести ее...

(July 2014)

BORIS KHERSONSKY

Boris Khersonsky was born in Chernivtsi in 1950. He studied medicine in Ivano-Frankivsk and Odessa. He initially worked as a neurologist, before becoming a psychologist and psychiatrist at the Odessa regional psychiatric hospital. In 1996 Khersonsky took on an appointment at the department of psychology at Odessa National University, before becoming chair of the department of clinical psychology in 1999. In the Soviet times, Khersonsky was part of the Samizdat movement, which disseminated alternative, nonconformist literature through unofficial channels. Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, Khersonsky came out with seventeen collections of poetry and essays in Russian, and most recently, in Ukrainian. Widely regarded as one of Ukraine’s most prominent Russian-language poets, Khersonsky was the poet laureate of the Kyiv Laurels Poetry Festival (2008) and the recipient of the Brodsky Stipend (2008), the Jury Special Prize at the Literaris Festival for East European Literature (2010), and the Russian Prize (2011).

июль 2014

Poem for 3/29/23 - Note to Self Work by Beau Sia

 

Note to Self Work

Beau Sia 

get there before sundown.

feed yourself 
only with what nurtures. 

let the process of shedding 
be joyous in its eternity. 

create and call it creation. 

tell lashing out that 
it isn’t worthy of your song. 

beat the drum
instead of yourself. 

beat the drum when hands 
want to become fists. 

beat the drum to get 
beneath the surface. 

jump off the bed. 
welcome waves in the tub. 
cook as if dancing. 

be a metaphor
when literal is too much. 

cry into your journal
as if it is rising’s way. 

praise into your journal 
like you ain’t apologizing 
to no one for shine. 

claim into your journal, 
for there’s no need 
to die waiting. 

be too vibrant for lingering
on those who neglect. 

too awww 
to keep treating yourself 
so poorly. 

be more than knowing. 

in case you need encouragement, 
I’mma share 
that memory 
you tucked away, 

scared you’d be laughed at 
trying for more than 
drowning spectacularly. 

that shows you beyond 
the bad beats. 

who you were before 
that season you’ve forgotten. 

to remind 
that every victory counts
and that you’re 
one step closer today. 

From Well Played (Not a Cult, 2020) by Beau Sia. Copyright © 2020 by Beau Sia. Used with the permission of the publisher.

Poem for 3/28/23 - The Red Cow Is Dead by E.B. White

                     

E.B. White and his dachshund Minnie contemplate the death of the Red Cow.

                      The Red Cow Is Dead

by E.B. White

Isle of Wight (AP) -- Sir Hanson Rowbotham's favorite Red Polled cow is dead. Grazing in the lush pastures of the Wellow Farm, she was bitten on the udder by an adder. -- The Herald Tribune.

Toll the bell, fellow,

This is a sad day at Wellow:

Sir Hanson's cow is dead,

His red cow,

Bitten on the udder by an adder.

Spread the bad news! What is more sudden, 

What sadder than udder stung by adder?

He's never been madder, Sir Hanson Rowbotham.

The Red Polled cow is dead.

The grass was lush at very last, 

And the snake (a low sneak)

Passed, hissed, 

Struck.

Now a shadow goes across the meadow,

Wellow lies fallow.

The red cow is dead, and the stories go round.

"Bit in the teat by a dog in a fit."

"A serpent took Sir Hanson's cow--

A terrible loss, a king's ransom."

A blight has hit Wight:

The lush grass, the forked lash, the quick gash 

Of adder, torn bleeding udder,

The cow laid low,

The polled cow dead, the bell not yet tolled 

(A sad day at Wellow), 

Sir Hanson's cow,

Never again to freshen, never again

Bellow with passion

A ruminant in death's covenant,

Smitten, bitten, gone.

Toll the bell, young fellow! (1946)