Morning Poem (Mary Oliver)

 

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted -- -

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

Sometimes a Wild God (Tom Hirons)

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.

He is awkward and does not know the ways

Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.

His voice makes vinegar from wine.

When the wild god arrives at the door,

You will probably fear him.

He reminds you of something dark

That you might have dreamt,

Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

He will not ring the doorbell;

Instead he scrapes with his fingers

Leaving blood on the paintwork,

Though primroses grow

In circles round his feet.

You do not want to let him in.

You are very busy.

It is late, or early, and besides…

You cannot look at him straight

Because he makes you want to cry.

Your dog barks;

The wild god smiles.

He holds out his hand and

The dog licks his wounds,

Then leads him inside.

The wild god stands in your kitchen.

Ivy is taking over your sideboard;

Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades

And wrens have begun to sing

An old song in the mouth of your kettle.

‘I haven’t much,’ you say

And give him the worst of your food.

He sits at the table, bleeding.

He coughs up foxes.

There are otters in his eyes.

When your wife calls down,

You close the door and

Tell her it’s fine.

You will not let her see

The strange guest at your table.

The wild god asks for whiskey

And you pour a glass for him,

Then a glass for yourself.

Three snakes are beginning to nest

In your voicebox. You cough.

Oh, limitless space.

Oh, eternal mystery.

Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.

Oh, miracle of life.

Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.

You cough again,

Expectorate the snakes and

Water down the whiskey,

Wondering how you got so old

And where your passion went.

The wild god reaches into a bag

Made of moles and nightingale-skin.

He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,

Raises an eyebrow

And all the birds begin to sing.

The fox leaps into your eyes.

Otters rush from the darkness.

The snakes pour through your body.

Your dog howls and upstairs

Your wife both exults and weeps at once.

The wild god dances with your dog.

You dance with the sparrows.

A white stag pulls up a stool

And bellows hymns to enchantments.

A pelican leaps from chair to chair.

In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.

Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.

Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.

The hills echo and the grey stones ring

With laughter and madness and pain.

In the middle of the dance,

The house takes off from the ground.

Clouds climb through the windows;

Lightning pounds its fists on the table

And the moon leans in.

The wild god points to your side.

You are bleeding heavily.

You have been bleeding for a long time,

Possibly since you were born.

There is a bear in the wound.

‘Why did you leave me to die?’

Asks the wild god and you say:

‘I was busy surviving.

The shops were all closed;

I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’

Listen to them:

The fox in your neck and

The snakes in your arms and

The wren and the sparrow and the deer…

The great un-nameable beasts

In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…

There is a symphony of howling.

A cacophony of dissent.

The wild god nods his head and

You wake on the floor holding a knife,

A bottle and a handful of black fur.

Your dog is asleep on the table.

Your wife is stirring, far above.

Your cheeks are wet with tears;

Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.

A black bear is sitting by the fire.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.

He is awkward and does not know the ways

Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.

His voice makes vinegar from wine

And brings the dead to life.

Those Winter Sundays (Robert Hayden)

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. 

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he'd call, 

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him, 

who had driven out the cold 

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know 

of love's austere and lonely offices? 

When Death Comes (Mary Oliver)

When death comes

like the hungry bear in Autumn

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut,

when death comes

like the measle-pox;

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,

tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth

When it is over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Why Are Your Poems So Dark (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.

Night Herons (Mary Oliver)

Some herons
were fishing
in the robes
of the night

at a low hour
of the water's body,
and the fish, I suppose,
were full

of fish happiness
in those transparent inches
even as, over and over,
the beaks jacked down

and the narrow
bodies were lifted
with every
quick sally,

and that was the end of them
as far as we know_
though, what do we know 
except that death

is so everywhere and so entire-
pummeling and felling,
or sometimes,
like this, appearing

through such a thin door-
one stab, and you're through!
and what then?
Why, then it was almost morning,

and one by one 
the birds
opened their wings
and flew. 

no help for that (Charles Bukowski)

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

a space

and even during the 
best moments
and
the greatest
times

we will know it

we will know it
more than 
ever

there will be a place in the heart that

will never be filled
and

we will wait
and
wait

in that space.

I Own a House (Mary Oliver)

 I own a house, small but comfortable. In it is a bed, a desk, 

a kitchen, a closet, a telephone. And so forth - you know

how it is; things collect. 

Outside the summer clouds are drifting by, all of them

with vague and beautiful faces. And there are the pines

that bush out spicy and ambitious, although they do not

even know their names. And there is the mockingbird;

over and over he rises from his thorn-tree and dances - he

actually dances, in the air. And there are days I wish I

owned nothing, like the grass. 

The Gift (Mary Oliver)

 Be still, my soul, and steadfast.

Earth and heaven both are still watching

though time is draining from the clock

and your walk, that was confident and quick

has become slow.

So, be slow if you must, but let

the heart still play its true part.

Love still as once you loved, deeply

and without patience. Let God and the world

know you are grateful.

That gift has been given. 

Storage (Mary Oliver)

When I moved from one house to another

there were many things I had no room

for. What does one do? I rented a storage

space. And filled it. Years passed. 

Occasionally I went there and looked in,

but nothing happened, not a single

twinge of the heart. 

As I grew older the things I cared

about grew fewer, but were more 

important, So one day I undid the lock

and called the trash man. He took

everything. 

I felt like the little donkey when

his burden is finally lifted. Things!

Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful

fire! More room in your heart for love, 

for the trees! For the birds who own

nothing-the reason they can fly. 

The World I Live In (Mary Oliver)

 I have refused to live

locked in the orderly house of

     reason and proofs.

The world I live in and believe in

is wider than that. And anyway,

     what's wrong with Maybe?

You wouldn't believe what once or

twice I have seen. I'll just

     tell you this:

only if there are angels in your head will you

     ever possibly, see one.