Harsh that hearing for Houston the Raven:
Foes had enfeebled the fortress at Bexar,
Leaving it lacking and looted the while
Hordes were sweeping swift on the land,
[...]
The Ballad of Bowie Gizzardsbane by John Myers Myers
It is a serious thing, nothing.
The notion confounds the mind
As wind confounds the sea.
A woman fixes words to a miracle,
A man describes himself to God.
The syllables amount to something,
But they are nothing to speak of.
-- 'To Speak of Nothing' by N. Scott Momaday
And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:
The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of.
It was winter, near freezing,
I'd walked through a forest of firs
when I saw issue out of the waterfall
a solitary bird.
It lit on a damp rock,
and, as water swept stupidly on,
wrung from its own throat
supple, undammable song.
It isn't mine to give.
I can't coax this bird to my hand
that knows the depth of the river
yet sings of it on land.
-- The Dipper by Kathleen Jamie from 'Selected Poems'
Closing the book, I find I have left my head
inside. It is dark in here, but he chapters open
their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound,
words adjusting themselves to their meaning.
Long passages open at successive pages. An echo,
continuous from the title onward, hums
behind me. From in here, the world looms,
a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences
carved out when an author traveled and a reader
kept the way open. When this book ends
I will pull it inside-out like a sock
and throw it back in the library. But the rumor
of it will haunt all that follows in my life.
A candleflame in Tibet leans when I move.
--Mary Oliver
This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
-Margaret Atwood
When it comes back to teach you
or you come back to learn
how half alive you’ve been,
how your own ignorance and arrogance
have kept you deprived—
when it comes back to you
or you yourself return,
joy is simple, unassuming.
Red tulips on their green stems.
Early spring vegetables, bright in the pan.
The primary colors of a child’s painting,
the first lessons, all over again.
—Thomas Centolella from’ Lights & Mysteries’
Now my five senses
gather into a meaning
all acts, all presences;
and as a lily gathers
the elements together,
in me this dark and shining,
that stillness and that moving,
these shapes that spring from nothing,
become a rhythm that dances,
a pure design.
While I'm in my five senses
they send me spinning
all sounds and silences,
all shape and colour
as thread for that weaver,
whose web within me growing
follows beyond my knowing
some pattern sprung from nothing-
a rhythm that dances
and is not mine.
--Judith Wright
I like the lady horses best,
how they make it all look easy,
like running 40 miles per hour
is as fun as taking a nap, or grass.
I like their lady horse swagger,
after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up!
But mainly, let's be honest, I like
that they're ladies. As if this big
dangerous animal is also a part of me,
that somewhere inside the delicate
skin of my body, there pumps
an 8-pound female horse heart,
giant with power, heavy with blood.
Don't you want to believe it?
Don't you want to lift my shirt and see
the huge beating genius machine
that thinks, no, it knows,
it's going to come in first.
-- Ada Limón from 'Bright Dead Things'
God made her
his vessel. No.
God made of her
a vessel. No.
The river poured
into her as if
a vessel. Yes.
God made of
her a raft. No.
Her child clung to
her as if a raft.
No. Clung to her
as a raft. Yes.
God made of her
a vassal. Yes:
landless, river
pastured, root
cut loose.
—Lisa Olstein from ‘Dream Apartment’
A whip-poor-will brushed
her wing along the ground
a moment ago, fifty years
in the orchard where my father
kept pear and plum,
a decade of peach trees
and Antinovka's apples
whose seeds come
from Russia by ship
under clouds islanding
a window very past
where also went
the soul of my mother
in a boat with blossoming
sails like apple petals
in wind fifty years at once.
-- Carolyn Forché from 'Lateness of the World'
We are spendthrifts with words,
We squander them,
Toss them like pennies in the air-
Arrogant words,
Angry words,
Cruel words,
Comradely words,
Shy words tiptoeing from mouth to ear.
But the slowly wrought words of love
and the thunderous words of heartbreak-
Those we hoard.
--Pauli Murray from 'Dark Testament and Other Poems'
pastel June roses
afternoon picnic baskets
hiking a mountain meadow
the wanderlust thirst
as open as the ocean
beneath a fair freckled sky
drunk on sunshine wine
sunburns and blistered noses sticky glazed humidity
crowds of rowdy kids
traffic congested beaches
August comes, longing for fall
--Michelle Faulkner
Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamer,
Bring me all your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.
-- Langston Hughes
Gently I stir a white feather fan,
With open shirt sitting in a green wood.
I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone;
A wind from the pine-trees trickles on my bare
head.
-- Li Po (tr. Arthur Waley)
Give me your hand and give me your love,
give me your hand and dance with me.
A single flower, and nothing more,
a single flower is all we'll be.
Keeping time in the dance together,
singing the tune together with me,
grass in the wind, and nothing more,
grass in the wind is all we'll be.
I'm called Hope and you're called Rose:
but losing our names we'll both go free,
a dance on the hills, and nothing more,
a dance on the hills is all we'll be.
--Gabriela Mistral (tr. Ursula K. Le Guin)
In the vast abyss before time, self
is not, and soul commingles
with mist, and rock, and light. In time,
soul brings the misty self to be.
Then slow time hardens self to stone
while ever lightening the soul,
till soul can loose its hold of self
and both are free and can return
to vastness and dissolve in light,
the long light after time.
--Ursula K. Le Guin
For #VerseThursday, not a poem but art commissioned by a poet. The story is that the dancer Tilly Losch ascended the stairs from the bath to the bedroom and Edward James was so taken by her wet footprints that he commissioned a carpet with the pattern of her footfall woven in. (After they divorced in 1934, he moved the carpet from his personal residence to another building in the estate, and had the stairs in his home redone with the footprints of someone more loyal: his Irish wolfhound.)
I take an old woman a glass of water
She has few pleasures left in life.
It's cold and sharp
Hill spring it says on the bottle.
She cups the tumbler as a chalice
And sips from a mountain spring
As a child she'd drunk in streams.
She smiles at the genie inside
And offers me a taste: it's sweet.
I hand it back and we make a toast
Fingers touching around the glass
Careful not to spill one drop of magic.
--Beda Higgins