This is the time to be slow,

Lie low to the wall

Until the bitter weather passes.

Try, as best you can, not to let

The wire brush of doubt

Scrape from your heart

All sense of yourself

And your hesitant light.

If you remain generous,

Time will come good;

And you will find your feet

Again on fresh pastures of promise,

Where the air will be kind

And blushed with beginning.

--John O'Donohue

"Thudong monks valued wandering as an ascetic practice, as a means of training the mind to face hardship and the unpredictable. Whenever they wandered far from the relative comfort and security of the monastic life, they had to contend with fear, pain, fatigue, hunger, frustration, and distress; and sometimes they risked death. ... [A monk] never knew where he would spend the night, where the next meal would come from, or what difficulties he would encounter. He learned to live with insecurities and discomforts - life's inevitable dukkha." 

- Kamala Tiyavanich, Forest Recollections, p. 143

Oxygen

Everything needs it: bone, muscles, and even,

while it calls the earth its home, the soul.

So the merciful, noisy machine

stands in our house working away in its

lung-like voice. I hear it as I kneel

before the fire, stirring with a

stick of iron, letting the logs

lie more loosely. You, in the upstairs room,

are in your usual position, leaning on your

right shoulder which aches

all day. You are breathing

patiently; it is a

beautiful sound. It is

your life, which is so close

to my own that I would not know

where to drop the knife of

separation. And what does this have to do

with love, except

everything? Now the fire rises

and offers a dozen, singing, deep-red

roses of flame. Then it settles

to quietude, or maybe gratitude, as it feeds

as we all do, as we must, upon the invisible gift:

our purest sweet necessity: the air.

-- Mary Oliver

This Poem Should Be a Circle

I wish you the ability to breathe

after pain, to begin again, though

nothing else seems possible.

I wish you resilience: to part like

the ocean and accept like the sky,

to be held like a root.

I wish you survival: to take in life

like a trapped miner finding an

airhole and praising it as God.

I wish you courage: to ask of

everything you meet, “What

bridge are we?”

I wish you chances to listen:

to all that holds us up.

I wish you the-kindness-that-you-are

coming to brighten your face

like orange leaves scattered

at the end of fall.

I wish you endless journey that

seldom appears as we imagine.

I wish you curiosity: to make a

boat of wonder and an oar

of gratitude.

--Mark Nepo

There is no going back

No, no, there is no going back. Less and less you are that possibility you were. More and more you have become those lives and deaths that have belonged to you. You have become a sort of grave containing much that was and is no more in time, beloved then, now, and always. And so you have become a sort of tree standing over a grave. Now more than ever you can be generous toward each day that comes, young, to disappear forever, and yet remain unaging in the mind. Every day you have less reason not to give yourself away. ~ Wendell Berry ~ (Collected Poems)

Ode to Joy

Friedrich Schiller called Joy the spark of divinity

but she visits me on a regular basis,

and it doesn’t take much for her to appear—

the salt next to the pepper by the stove,

the garbage man ascending his station

on the back of the moving garbage truck,

or I’m just eating a banana

in the car and listening to Buddy Guy.

In other words, she seems down-to-earth,

like a girl getting off a bus with a suitcase

and no one’s there to meet her.

It’s a little after four in the afternoon,

one of the first warm days of spring.

She sits on her suitcase to wait

and slides on her sunglasses.

How do I know she’s listening to the birds?

--Billy Collins

I thought the earth remembered me,

she took me back so tenderly,

arranging her dark skirts, her pockets

full of lichens and seeds.

I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,

nothing between me and the white fire of the stars

but my thoughts and they floated light as moths

among the branches of the perfect trees.

All night I heard the small kingdoms

breathing around me, the insects,

and the birds who do their work in the darkness.

All night I rose and fell, as if in water,

grappling with a luminous doom. By morning

I had vanished at least a dozen times

into something better.

--Mary Oliver

Welcome Morning

There is joy

in all:

in the hair I brush each morning,

in the Cannon towel, newly washed,

that I rub my body with each morning,

in the chapel of eggs I cook

each morning,

in the outcry from the kettle

that heats my coffee

each morning,

in the spoon and the chair

that cry “hello there, Anne”

each morning,

in the godhead of the table

that I set my silver, plate, cup upon

each morning.

All this is God,

right here in my pea-green house

each morning

and I mean,

though often forget,

to give thanks,

to faint down by the kitchen table

in a prayer of rejoicing

as the holy birds at the kitchen window

peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,

let me paint a thank-you on my palm

for this God, this laughter of the morning,

lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,

dies young.

--Ann Sexton

Threshold

It has happened.

You thought you had some control

of your life

and that you were in a place

you understood

in a time that moved

from a past you knew

to a future that followed

in a more or less straight line.

But here you are at the edge

of a shore, the shallow waves

washing over your feet

taking the sand you stand on

away and suddenly you wonder

if all the ground beneath you

is disappearing.

You have stepped through the threshold.

The door closed and locked behind you.

You are on the other side.

You try to forget it, distract yourself,

but nothing works.

You check your messages.

The doctor’s office left a number

on your phone.

Is it a blood test result,

survival rate for treatment,

or days left to live?

Now you are alone.

After the panic subsides you stand there

looking around.

Everything is fresh,

colors are vivid,

you can smell scents,

even subtle ones,

and your hearing is sharp.

You feel the breeze on your skin

and the tickle of hairs moving

across your brow.

You are pierced through

with the inexplicable joy

at having nothing.

The sand forms around your foot

and the water wipes out all traces of your path.

Everywhere you turn there is something new

and the space around you

holds you gently

as it spills out and becomes

a part of the expanding world.

So many things are remarkable now.

Here is the freedom that always frightened you.

You have forgotten your name

and it does not matter.

--Newton Smith

You don't want to hear the story

of my life, and anyway

I don't want to tell it, I want to listen

to the enormous waterfalls of the sun.

And anyway it's the same old story

a few people just trying,

one way or another,

to survive.

Mostly, I want to be kind.

- Mary Oliver, from Dogfish

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.

-Mary Oliver

What the Heart Says

The mind may leap five steps ahead,

devices pinging with new messages,

alerts, alarms. But the heart says,

There is no emergency. That muscle

wanting to unclench, aching to flex

as free as the monarch nectaring

on a Mexican sunflower at the cusp

of autumn. Don’t we all long for

space to pause and draw sweetness

from each bright thing in our path?

Don’t we crave the slowness of that

butterfly perched on orange petals,

coming alive in a way it never can

while in mid-air, wings folding and

unfolding their own form of prayer?

—James Crews

Wellness Check

In any moment,

on any given day,

I can measure

my wellness

by this question:

Is my attention on loving,

or is my attention on

who isn't loving me?

--Andrea Gibson

Friend, you are who taught me 

that a difficult life is not less 

worth living than a gentle one. 

Joy is just easier to carry than sorrow, 

and you could lift a city

from how long you’ve spent holding

what’s been nearly impossible to hold. 

But this world needs those who know

how to do that. Those who can find 

a tunnel with no light at the end 

of it and hold it up like a telescope 

to show that the darkness contains 

many truths that can bring the light 

to its knees. 

Grief astronomer, adjust the lens, 

look close, tell the world

what you see.

--Andrea Gibson 

August Afternoon

The backyard bugs are sparks

of afternoon sun as a white

butterfly wobbles up and

over the fence and visits

dandelions at random and

how can it exist? So fragile

and bright and alone in the world.

These warm August days are as

fleeting as those bright wings,

eluding every touch until you finally

sit still and let them land.

--James A Pearson

The Cure at Troy

Human beings suffer,

they torture one another,

they get hurt and get hard.

No poem or play or song

can fully right a wrong

inflicted or endured.

The innocent in jails

beat on their bars together.

A hunger-striker's father

stands in the graveyard dumb.

The police widow in veils

faints at the funeral home.

History says, Don't hope

on this side of the grave.

But then, once in a lifetime

the longed for tidal wave

of justice can rise up,

and hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change

on the far side of revenge.

Believe that a further shore

is reachable from here.

Believe in miracles

and cures and healing wells.

Call the miracle self-healing:

The utter self-revealing

double-take of feeling.

If there's fire on the mountain

Or lightning and storm

And a god speaks from the sky

That means someone is hearing

the outcry and the birth-cry

of new life at its term.

It means once in a lifetime

That justice can rise up

And hope and history rhyme.

- Seamus Heaney, from "The Cure at Troy"

When I Thought I Was Dying

It was easy to love things. Birds, the flutter of branches,

my husband who always has to be right.

I thought, I will lose all of this. I hugged my cats more.

I watched less television, except for comedies, which drugged

me to sleep at night. Stupid 1950's sci-fi films, especially.

Maybe I loved them too. I loved poetry and wrote almost every day,

thinking, I do not have time to write. The lights would flicker

and threaten outages. How like our bodies these power lines are,

reliable until they are not: eaten by rats or rammed by cars at random.

You see how I thought everything was profound: my Netflix

recommendations, passing a woman on the street and smiling at each other.

I ate a lot more pancakes, something I hadn't done since childhood.

I thought, maybe there will be a miracle. Maybe I will have more time.

A temporary grant of extension. I will still do taxes and fill out forms

at the doctor's office. I will have time to be mad at traffic.

I will stop petting random dogs. I will have time to stop

noticing when the hummingbird or deer or Steller's jay pauses

to look in my eyes, that moment before. That's the thing

about having time. You miss so much.

--Jeannine Hall Gailey

In many Muslim cultures, when you want to ask them how they’re doing, you ask: in Arabic, Kayf haal-ik? or, in Persian, Haal-e shomaa chetoreh? How is your haal?

What is this haal that you inquire about? It is the transient state of one’s heart. In reality, we ask, 'How is your heart doing at this very moment, at this breath?' When I ask, 'How are you?' that is really what I want to know.

I am not asking how many items are on your to-do list, nor asking how many items are in your inbox. I want to know how your heart is doing, at this very moment. Tell me. Tell me your heart is joyous, tell me your heart is aching, tell me your heart is sad, tell me your heart craves a human touch. Examine your own heart, explore your soul, and then tell me something about your heart and your soul.

Tell me you remember you are still a human being, not just a human doing. Tell me you’re more than just a machine, checking off items from your to-do list. Have that conversation, that glance, that touch. Be a healing conversation, one filled with grace and presence.

Put your hand on my arm, look me in the eye, and connect with me for one second. Tell me something about your heart, and awaken my heart. Help me remember that I too am a full and complete human being, a human being who also craves a human touch.

— Omid Safi, The Disease of Being Busy

The Buddha's Last Instruction

“Make of yourself a light,”

said the Buddha,

before he died.

I think of this every morning

as the east begins

to tear off its many clouds

of darkness, to send up the first

signal -- a white fan

streaked with pink and violet,

even green.

An old man, he lay down

between two sala trees,

and he might have said anything,

knowing it was his final hour.

The light burns upward,

it thickens and settles over the fields.

Around him, the villagers gathered

and stretched forward to listen.

Even before the sun itself

hangs, disattached, in the blue air,

I am touched everywhere

by its ocean of yellow waves.

No doubt he thought of everything

that had happened in his difficult life.

And then I feel the sun itself

as it blazes over the hills,

like a million flowers on fire --

clearly I'm not needed,

yet I feel myself turning

into something of inexplicable value.

Slowly, beneath the branches,

he raised his head.

He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.

~ Mary Oliver

Life is short, and it is sinful to waste one’s time. They say I’m active. But being active is still wasting one’s time, if in doing one loses oneself. Today is a resting time, and my heart goes off in search of itself. If an anguish still clutches me, it’s when I feel this impalpable moment slip through my fingers like quicksilver… At the moment, my whole kingdom is of this world. This sun and these shadows, this warmth and this cold rising from the depths of the air: why wonder if something is dying or if [people] suffer, since everything is written on this window where the sun sheds its plenty as a greeting to my pity?

-- Albert Camus

Next Time

I'll know the names of all of the birds

and flowers, and not only that, I'll

tell you the name of the piano player

I'm hearing right now on the kitchen

radio, but I won't be in the kitchen,

I'll be walking a street in

New York or London, about

to enter a coffee shop where people

are reading or working on their

laptops. They'll look up and smile.

Next time I won't waste my heart

on anger; I won't care about

being right. I'll be willing to be

wrong about everything and to

concentrate on giving myself away.

Next time, I'll rush up to people I love,

look into their eyes, and kiss them, quick.

I'll give everyone a poem I didn't write,

one specially chosen for that person.

They'll hold it up and see a new

world. We'll sing the morning in,

and I will keep in touch with friends,

writing long letters when I wake from

a dream where they appear on the

Orient Express. "Meet me in Istanbul,"

I'll say, and they will.

-- Joyce Sutphen

From After Words

Once the World Was Perfect

Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world.

Then we took it for granted.

Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind.

Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head.

And once Doubt ruptured the web,

All manner of demon thoughts

Jumped through—

We destroyed the world we had been given

For inspiration, for life—

Each stone of jealousy, each stone

Of fear, greed, envy, and hatred, put out the light.

No one was without a stone in his or her hand.

There we were,

Right back where we had started.

We were bumping into each other

In the dark.

And now we had no place to live, since we didn't know

How to live with each other.

Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another

And shared a blanket.

A spark of kindness made a light.

The light made an opening in the darkness.

Everyone worked together to make a ladder.

A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world,

And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children,

And their children, all the way through time—

To now, into this morning light to you.

--Joy Harjo

From Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings.  Copyright © 2015 by Joy Harjo.  

God Says Yes To Me

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic

and she said yes

I asked her if it was okay to be short

and she said it sure is

I asked her if I could wear nail polish

or not wear nail polish

and she said honey

she calls me that sometimes

she said you can do just exactly

what you want to

Thanks God I said

And is it even okay if I don't paragraph

my letters

Sweetcakes God said

who knows where she picked that up

what I'm telling you is

Yes Yes Yes

—Kaylin Haught

The Light We Leave Behind

A star chart tells me

that the star I am seeing tonight

is 500 light years away.

It may have died 499 years ago,

and I am still seeing its last light.

Stars are born, they live, and they die.

What is the light that remains when we leave?

If I die after writing this poem, is this my light,

and how long might that light remain and be seen?

I wondered last night and still this morning

about these questions, and still now,

standing again outside

under a mackerel sky dappled, rippled with clouds

and the sun, our family star,

which will also die.

Then, there will be no light remaining.

Perhaps, this is not what you believed.

When it dies, the Earth dies with it.

No last light to come after it.

In its end, the sun will expand

into a red giant

and will vaporize the Earth.

My son rises

and joins me outside

his coffee steaming a small cloud

into the December air.

In this enormous moment,

we look into the sky and universe.

We are a fortnight from the year ending

and hopeful for many more circles

around the sun. We are expanding,

gathering our light, and sharing it

while we can still see it reflected

in those constellating nearby.

--Kenneth Ronkowitz

I am astonished in my teaching to find how many poets are nearly blind to the physical world. They have ideas, memories, and feelings, but when they write their poems they often see them as similes. To break this habit, I have my students keep a journal in which they must write, very briefly, six things they have seen each day—not beautiful or remarkable things, just things. This seemingly simple task usually is hard for them. At the beginning, they typically “see” things in one of three ways: artistically, deliberately, or not at all. Those who see artistically instantly decorate their descriptions, turning them into something poetic: the winter trees immediately become “old men with snow on their shoulders,” or the lake looks like a “giant eye.” The ones who see deliberately go on and on describing a brass lamp by the bed with painful exactness. And the ones who see only what is forced on their attention: the grandmother in a bikini riding on a skateboard, or a bloody car wreck. But with practice, they begin to see carelessly and learn a kind of active passivity until after a month nearly all of them have learned to be available to seeing—and the physical world pours in. Their journals fill up with lovely things like, “the mirror with nothing reflected in it.” This way of seeing is important, even vital to the poet, since it is crucial that a poet see when she or he is not looking—just as she must write when she is not writing. To write just because the poet wants to write is natural, but to learn to see is a blessing. The art of finding in poetry is the art of marrying the sacred to the world, the invisible to the human.

— Linda Gregg, from “The Art of Finding”