Tell them, by Edwina Gateley

 

Breaking through the powers of darkness
bursting from the stifling tomb
he slipped into the graveyard garden
to smell the blossomed air.

Tell them, Mary, Jesus said,
that I have journeyed far
into the darkest deeps I've been
in nights without a star.

Tell them, Mary, Jesus said,
that fear will flee my light
that though the ground will tremble
and despair will stalk the earth
I hold them firmly by the hand
through terror to new birth.

Tell them, Mary, Jesus said,
the globe and all that's made
is clasped to God's great bosom
they must not be afraid
for though they fall and die, he said,
and the black earth wrap them tight
they will know the warmth
of God's healing hands
in the early morning light.

Tell them, Mary, Jesus said,
smelling the blossomed air,
tell my people to rise with me
to heal the Earth's despair.

— Edwina Gateley

"Messenger" by Mary Oliver

 “Messenger”

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—

    equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums,

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect?

Let me keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

   and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

    to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

   that we live forever.

~Mary Oliver

It is the destruction of the world

 

It is the destruction of the world
in our own lives
that drives us half insane, and more than half.

To destroy that which we were given
in trust: how will we bear it?
It is our own bodies that we give
to be broken,
our bodies existing before and after us
in clod and cloud, worm and tree,
that we, driving or driven, despise
in our greed to live, our haste
to die. To have lost, wantonly,
the ancient forests, the vast grasslands
in our madness, the presence
in our very bodies of our grief.

— Wendell Berry

I wandered lonely as a cloud

 I wandered lonely as a cloud, William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

I have a dream, Martin Luther King, Jr.

From I Have A Dream (delivered August 28, 1963)

Martin Luther King, Jr. (1929–1968)

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" — one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together." 

I taught myself to live simply

I Taught Myself to Live Simply

I taught myself to live simply and wisely,

to look at the sky and pray to God,

and to wander long before evening

to tire my superfluous worries.

When the burdocks rustle in the ravine

and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops

I compose happy verses

about life's decay, decay and beauty.

I come back. The fluffy cat

licks my palm, purrs so sweetly

and the fire flares bright

on the saw-mill turret by the lake.

Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof

occasionally breaks the silence.

If you knock on my door

I may not even hear.

Anna Akhmatova (1889–1966)

Otherwise, by Jane Kenyon

 

Otherwise, by Jane Kenyon

Sabbath by Wendell Berry

Sabbath

The mind that comes to rest is tended

In ways that it cannot intend:
Is borne, preserved, and comprehended
By what it cannot comprehend.
Your will, not ours. And it is fit
Our only choice should be to die

Into that rest, or out of it.
Our only choice should be to die
Into that rest, or out of it.

Your Sabbath, Lord, thus keeps us by

Your will, not ours. And it is fit

Wendell Berry 1934-

Sabbath, by Wendell Berry ~ April is Poetry Month

Sabbath

The mind that comes to rest is tended

In ways that it cannot intend:
Is borne, preserved, and comprehended
By what it cannot comprehend.
Your will, not ours. And it is fit
Our only choice should be to die

Into that rest, or out of it.
Our only choice should be to die
Into that rest, or out of it.

Your Sabbath, Lord, thus keeps us by

Your will, not ours. And it is fit

Wendell Berry 1934-

Spring, by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Spring

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –         

   When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;         

   Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush         

Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring         

The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;

   The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush         

   The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush         

With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.         

What is all this juice and all this joy?         

   A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning

In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,         

   Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,         

Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,         

   Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.         

Source: Gerard Manley Hopkins: Poems and Prose (Penguin Classics, 1985)

Easter Week, by Joyce Kilmer - Poetry for Poetry Month

Easter Week
by Joyce Kilmer

(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)

("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.") —William Butler Yeats.

"Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,

    It's with O'Leary in the grave."

Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn

    A hue so radiantly brave?

There was a rain of blood that day,

    Red rain in gay blue April weather.

It blessed the earth till it gave birth

    To valour thick as blooms of heather.

Romantic Ireland never dies!

    O'Leary lies in fertile ground,

And songs and spears throughout the years

    Rise up where patriot graves are found.

Immortal patriots newly dead

    And ye that bled in bygone years,

What banners rise before your eyes?

    What is the tune that greets your ears?

The young Republic's banners smile

    For many a mile where troops convene.

O'Connell street is loudly sweet

    With strains of Wearing of the Green.

The soil of Ireland throbs and glows

    With life that knows the hour is here

To strike again like Irishmen

    For that which Irishmen hold dear.

Lord Edward leaves his resting place

    And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce.

See Emmet leap from troubled sleep

    To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse!

There is no rope can strangle song

    And not for long death takes his toll.

No prison bars can dim the stars

    Nor quicklime eat the living soul.

Romantic Ireland is not old.

    For years untold her youth shall shine.

Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread,

    The blood of martyrs is her wine.

Ready for Silence, Madeleine L'Engle - Poetry for Poetry Month

Ready for Silence
Madeleine L'Engle

Then hear now the silence
He comes in the silence
in silence he enters
the womb of the bearer
in silence he goes to
the realm of the shadows
redeeming and shriving
in silence he moves from
the grave cloths, the dark tomb
in silence he rises
ascends to the glory
leaving his promise
leaving his comfort
leaving his silence

So come now, Lord Jesus
Come in your silence
breaking our noising
laughter of panic
breaking this earth's time
breaking us breaking us
quickly Lord Jesus
make no long tarrying

When will you come
and how will you come
and will we be ready
for silence
                  your silence

Gethsemane by Mary Oliver - Poem for Poetry Month

Gethsemane, by Mary Oliver

The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.

Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept.

The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.

Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did, maybe the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn't move, maybe
the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.

Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.

God says yes to me, by Kaylin Haught - Poetry for Poetry Month

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

"God Says Yes To Me" by Kaylin Haught

I like to see a thunderstorm, by Elizabeth Coatsworth - Poetry for Poetry Month

I Like To See A Thunderstorm

I like to see a thunderstorm,

A dunder storm,

A blunder storm,

I like to see it, black and slow,

Come tumbling down the hills.

A plunder storm,

A wonder storm,

Roar loudly at out little house

And shake the window sills!

~ Elizabeth Coatsworth (1893-1986)

I wandered lonely as a cloud, by William Wordsworth - Poetry for Poetry Month

I wandered lonely as a cloud, by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

O Captain My Captain, by Walt Whitman - Poetry for Poetry Month

In honor of Abraham Lincoln on the anniversary of the day he died, a poem written in his honor by Walt Whitman:


O Captain my Captain!
by Walt Whitman

O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Spring is Christ, by Rumi - Poetry for Poetry Month

Everyone has eaten and fallen asleep.

The house is empty.

We walk out to the garden to let the apple

meet the peach, to carry messages

between rose and jasmine.

Spring is Christ,

raising martyred plants from their shrouds.

A leaf trembles. I tremble

in the wind-beauty like silk from Turkestan.

The censer fans into flame.

This wind is the Holy Spirit.

The trees are Mary.

Watch how husband and wife play subtle games

with their hands. Strings of cloudy pearls

are thrown across the lovers,

as is the marriage custom.

We talk about this and that. There is no rest

except on these branching moments.