Teddy Macker: "A Poem for My Daughter"

It seems we have made pain
some kind of mistake,
like having it
is somehow wrong.

Don’t let them fool you—
pain is a part of things.

But remember, dear Ellie,
the compost down in the field:
if the rank and dank and dark
are handled well, not merely discarded,
but turned and known and honored,
they one day come to beds of rich earth
home even to the most delicate rose.

❖


God comes to you disguised as your life.
Blessings often arrive as trouble.

In French, the word blesser means to wound
and relates to the Old English bletsian—

to sprinkle with blood.

And in Sanskrit there is a phrase,
a phrase to carry with you
wherever you go:

sarvam annam:

everything is food.

Every last thing.


❖


The Navajo people,
it is said,
intentionally wove
(intentionally!)
obvious flaws into their sacred quilts …

Why?

It is there, they say,
in the “mistake,”
in the imperfection,

through which the Great Spirit moves.


❖


Life is easy, yes.
And life is hard.
Life is simple, yes.
And life is complex.
We are tough, yes. But we are also fragile.
Everything’s eternally perfect
but help out if you can.


❖


Work on becoming a native of mind, a native of heart.
No thought, no feeling, could ever be “bad.”

It’s just another creature
in the bestiary of Buddha,
the bestiary of Christ.

Knowing this,
knowing this down to the marrow,
could save you, dear one,
much needless strife.

Remember that wild and strange animals
paused to drink at the pond
of the Buddha’s mind
even after he saw
the morning star.


❖


No matter what you do, no matter what happens,
it is impossible to leave the path.

Let me say that one more time:
No matter what you do, no matter what happens,
it is impossible to leave the path.


❖


Believe it or not, dear Ellie,
some folks carefully imagine
hideous gods tearing at flesh,
clawing at faces,
eating human hearts,
and drinking cups of blood …

Why?

To shake hands with the Whole Catastrophe,
to cultivate the Noble Idiot Yes.

According to their tradition,
there are 84,000 “skillful means,"
84,000 tactics of wakefulness,
84,000 ways to become spaciously alive,
84,000 ways to be at home in your life and in this world.

And many of those skillful means are like this one:

enlightenment through endarkment.


❖


Life appears to be fundamentally ambiguous.

Wily, everycolored, unpindownable.

For evidence of this, spend time with trees.

Over and over they say,

There is no final word.

And big decisions—
decisions concerning
relationships, concerning children,
concerning death—
are rarely made cleanly.

In general, be wary—
even if just a little—
of talk of purity,
of goodness,
of light.


❖


To love everything, not just parts …
To love all of yourself, not just certain traits …
To rest in not knowing …

To carry the cross
and to lay your burden down …

To savor the medicine blue of moon,
the fierce sugar of tangerine …

To be a Christ unto others,
a Christ unto one’s self …

To laugh …

To be shameless, wild, and silly …

To know—fully, headlong,
without compunction—the ordinary magic
of our beautiful human bodies …


these seem worthwhile pursuits, life-long tasks.


❖


By way of valediction, dear Ellie,
I pass along some words
from our many gracious teachers:

Eden is.

The imperfect is our paradise.

All is grace.



"A Poem for My Daughter" by Teddy Macker. Text as published in This World (White Cloud Press, 2015). © Teddy Macker. Reprinted by permission of the poet.

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Curator's note: Another long poem for you to savor into the new year and beyond. Only six days left until the conclusion of A Year of Being Here. Please be sure to complete my survey regarding a possible anthology of mindfulness poetry.

 

Tom Hennen: "Looking for the Differences"

 

I am struck by the otherness of things rather than their sameness.

The way a tiny pile of snow perches in the crook of a branch in the

tall pine, away by itself, high enough not to be noticed by people, 

out of reach of stray dogs. It leans against the scaly pine bark, busy

at some existence that does not need me.

It is the differences of objects that I love, that lift me toward the rest

of the universe, that amaze me. That each thing on earth has its own

soul, its own life, that each tree, each clod is filled with the mud of

its own star. I watch where I step and see that the fallen leaf, old

broken grass, an icy stone are placed in exactly the right spot on the

earth, carefully, royalty in their own country.

"Looking for the Differences" by Tom Hennen from Darkness Sticks to Everything: Collected and New Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2013).

Art credit: "Icy stone," photograph by Gungyoel.

Curator's note: Take a breather from holiday bustle. Read a poem you love. Then take my two-minute survey to will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry. A Year of Being Here concludes on January 1.

Esther Cohen: "Can I Call You Back?"

Last night as always
I called Bruce
although
he is the best telephone
person I know
he nearly
always says
Can I Call You Back
because he is Doing Something.
Last night he was
cutting up zucchini
and I asked him,
I always ask him
why he can’t talk to me
at the same time as he
cuts up his zucchini but
he can’t. He just can’t.
Later, he calls
back to explain What Happened
the Last Few Days
(nothing and everything)
Mike the painter
has landlord problems
red flying squirrel
still eating Bruce’s grapes
and I listen, thinking
how words
are the musical
notes I love.

"Can I Call You Back?" by Esther Cohen. Reblogged from On Being (12/09/2015), where it was posted as part of Postcards for Hanukkah, a sequence of eight photo-poems by Cohen and photographer Matthew Septimus.

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Curator's note: I know you're busy, but I'd be grateful if you took my two-minute survey before A Year of Being Here concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.

Barbara Crooker: "Solstice"

These are dark times. Rumors of war

rise like smoke in the east. Drought

widens its misery. In the west, glittering towers

collapse in a pillar of ash and dust. Peace,

a small white bird, flies off in the clouds.

And this is the shortest day of the year.

Still, in almost every window,

a single candle burns,

there are tiny white lights

on evergreens and pines,

and the darkness is not complete.

"Solstice" by  Barbara Crooker. Text as posted on Kingdom Poets (12/15/2014). © Barbara Crooker. Reprinted by permission of the poet. 

Art credit: "Christmas," photograph by soulkissfaerie.

Curator's note: Please take my two-minute survey before A Year of Being Here concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.

Marlene Cookshaw: "Over the Shoulder"

Guilt is a bag someone has carried

up the hill from the pub.  A brown bag

the size of a good catch, or

darkish, and bigger than that:

duffel over the shoulder.

Guilt is a pool with ladders

rising in every direction.

We climb and fall back and climb again.

Who can make the connection between

what snaps underfoot and what drenches us?

We are not taught how to do nothing.

We’re dragged from our busy infancy

and distracted for years till our

balloon of competence shreds.

There are secrets you know,

there is what happens when

what you haven’t imagined occurs.

Pain or its absence. Wind

bares the back of a sparrow’s head

underneath its buffer of down.

I believe in birds, the smallness of them,

their potential for flight, the way

they acknowledge this, even so

nodding and feeding in front of us.

"Over the Shoulder" by Marlene Cookshaw. Text as published in Double Somersaults (Brick Books, 1999).

Art credit: "Black-capped chickadees," image by unknown photographer.

Curator's note: Please take my two-minute survey before A Year of Being Here concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.

Emily Dickinson: "#875" ["I stepped from Plank to Plank"]

I stepped from Plank to Plank
A slow and cautious way
The Stars about my Head I felt
About my Feet the Sea.

I knew not but the next
Would be my final inch—
This gave me that precarious Gait
Some call Experience.



"#875" ["I stepped from Plank to Plank"] by Emily Dickinson. This poem is in the public domain.

Art credit: "Hussaini Hanging Bridge, Pakistan," across the Hunza River in the village of Hussaini in northern Pakistan, photograph by Jonathan Blair/Corbis. Caption: "Massive gaps between the planks, a wild side-to-side swing: there are reasons this is considered one of the world’s most harrowing suspension bridges. While rickety cable and wood bridges are common in this area, crossing this bridge over the rapidly flowing Hunza River is particularly frightening, as the tattered remains of the previous bridge hang by threads next to the one currently in use."

Curator's note: Please take my two-minute survey before A Year of Being Here concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.

Frederick Smock: "Moon"

The day lengthens,
the old earth tips its hat
to the moon.

The changeful moon
goes through many phases,
even in a single night,

though it is the same
moon as ever, we know this.
We are the changes.



"Moon" by Frederick Smock. Text as published in The Bounteous World: Poems (Broadstone Books, 2013). Reprinted by permission of the poet.

Art credit: Untitled photograph by Suppakij1017/Shutterstock.

Curator's note: Please take my two-minute survey before A Year of Being Here concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.

Amy Uyematsu: "Tea"

 














for Thich Nhat Hanh


How many years of suffering
revealed in hands like his
small and deliberate as a child's

The way he raises them
from his lap, grasps the teacup
with sure, unhurried ease

Yet full of anticipation
for what he will taste in each sip
he drinks as if it's his first time

Lifts the cup to his mouth,
a man who's been practicing all his life,
each time tasting something new.

"Tea" by Amy Uyematsu. Text as published in Stone Bow Prayer (Copper Canyon Press, 2005).

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Curator's note: Please take my two-minute survey before A Year of Being Here concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.

Tom Montag: "Winter Afternoon, Early December"

The grey lid has been
lifted off the day.

Sun spills everywhere—
on snow, on house, on

me at the window.
No wind in the willow,

no birds in bare branches,
no sadness in the absence.

Only the shine, instead,
the spin and dalliance

of every amazing
particular thing

in the long, the lovely
the almost perfect light.

"Winter Afternoon, Early December" by Tom Montag. Text as published in In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013 (Tom Montag, 2014). Reprinted by permission of the poet.

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Curator's note: Please take my two-minute survey before A Year of Being Here concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.

Mary Oliver: "Clam"

Each one is a small life, but sometimes long, if its
place in the universe is not found out. Like us, they
have a heart and a stomach; they know hunger, and
probably a little satisfaction too. Do not mock them
for their gentleness, they have a muscle that loves
being alive. They pull away from the light. They pull
down. They hold themselves together. They refuse to
open.

But sometimes they lose their place and are tumbled
shoreward in a storm. Then they pant, they fill
with sand, they have no choice but must open the
smallest crack. Then the fire of the world touches
them. Perhaps, on such days, they too begin the
terrible effort of thinking, of wondering who, and
what, and why. If they can bury themselves again in
the sand they will. If not, they are sure to perish,
though not quickly. They also have resources beyond
the flesh; they also try very hard not to die.

"Clam" by Mary Oliver. Text as published in What Do We Know: Poems and Prose Poems (Da Capo Press, 2002).

Art credit: "Winter Clam Scene," photograph taken on 1/08/2013 by Roger Golub. Caption: "Ice crystals on Butter Clams."

Curator's note: Have you given me the gift of your wisdom yet? Please take my two-minute survey before January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.

Dobby Gibson: "Upon Discovering My Entire Solutionto the Attainment of ImmortalityErased From the BlackboardExcept the Word `Save'"

If you have seen the snow
somewhere slowly fall
on a bicycle,
then you understand
all beauty will be lost
and how even that loss
can be beautiful.
And if you have looked
at a winter garden
and seen not a winter garden
but a meditation on shape,
then you know why
this season is not
known for its words,
the cold too much
about the slowing of matter,
not enough about the making of it.
So you are blessed
to forget this way:
a jump rope in the ice melt,
a mitten that has lost its hand,
a sun that shines
as if it doesn’t mean it.
And if in another season
you see a beautiful woman
use her bare hands
to smooth wrinkles
from her expensive dress
for the sake of dignity,
but in so doing trace
the outlines of her thighs,
then you will remember
surprise assumes a space
that has first been forgotten,
especially here, where we
rarely speak of it,
where we walk out onto the roofs
of frozen lakes
simply because we’re stunned
we really can.

"Upon Discovering My Entire Solution to the Attainment of Immortality Erased from the Blackboard Except the Word `Save'" by Dobby Gibson. Text as published in Polar (Alice James Books, 2005), available for purchase here.

Art credit: Untitled photograph by Emmanuel Coupe-Kalomiris. Caption: "This image was taken in wintertime in an arid area of the Canadian Rockies. Temperatures were below 30 degrees Celsius, yet because there was no snow fall the surface of the lake was uncovered allowing me to see and capture the bubbles (gas release from lake bed) that were trapped in the frozen waters."

Curator's note: Please take two minutes for this survey to help me decide whether or not to create an anthology of mindfulness poetry. The survey will be up until January 1, 2016, when A Year of Being Here concludes after a wonderful three-year run.

Czeslaw Milosz: "Hope"

Hope is with you when you believe
The earth is not a dream but living flesh,
That sight, touch, and hearing do not lie,
That all things you have ever seen here
Are like a garden looked at from a gate.

You cannot enter. But you're sure it's there.
Could we but look more clearly and wisely
We might discover somewhere in the garden
A strange new flower and an unnamed star.

Some people say we should not trust our eyes,
That there is nothing, just a seeming,
These are the ones who have no hope.
They think that the moment we turn away,
The world, behind our backs, ceases to exist,
As if snatched up by the hands of thieves.

"Hope" by Czeslaw Milosz, from The World (1943). Text as published in New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001 (Ecco, 2003). Translated from the original Polish by Czeslaw Milosz and Robert Hass.

Art credit: "Follow Me," photograph by Andrea Clare.

Please take two minutes to take this survey and help the curator decide whether or not to create an anthology of mindfulness poetry. No time right now? The survey will be up until January 1, 2016, when A Year of Being Here concludes after a wonderful three-year run.  This website and associated social media will remain online as resources.

Curator's Note: Requesting the Gift of Your Wisdom

Many of you have been asking me for an anthology of mindfulness poetry. I’m considering it.

Please take two minutes to take this survey. Help me decide whether or not to do such a book.

No time right now? That’s okay. The survey will be up until January 1, 2016 (the end of A Year of Being Here).

What a gift your input will be! Thank you!

Deep peace,
Phyllis Cole-Dai

Answering Your Most-Asked Questions

Friends,

Thank you for your many kind personal messages as I wind down A Year of Being Here. Please know that I value each message I receive, and I will be sure to answer.

However, since many of you are asking similar questions, I thought it might be helpful briefly to respond to some of them in this post. If I've missed one that is important to you, let me know.

1. "Why are you ending the project? Have you run out of poems? Do you need more money?" No worries, there is an endless supply of mindfulness poetry in this world—keep berry-picking! And due to your generous donations, I'm certain that even if I kept the project going for a dozen more years, I'd never run short of funds. So why end? I won't belabor all the reasons, but I'll cite the most important: a scarcity of time. Three years ago, when I began this online "hobby project," it required only a half-hour's labor each day. Now it demands three to four hours, and is hungry for even more. As a result, I don't have enough time to do my "real work," which I truly enjoy. On a related note, no, I don't have any staff (though I do have a dear friend who was kind enough each summer to do postings while I went on a brief vacation with my family). And no, I don't wish to have a staff, because I don't wish to be a manager, but thanks for the suggestion.
   
   
2. "Would you allow me to take over the project?" It's kind of you to ask, but no. Forgive me for not getting into the details of why. But if you're truly interested in doing such a project, I strongly encourage you to create one.
   
   
3. "Will I still be able to access the poetry after the project ends?" Absolutely. The website  (http://www.ayearofbeinghere.com) will remain online. Many of you subscribers and social network followers have never visited the website. I encourage you to take advantage of its two archives (one organized by chronology, the other by author name) and its search function. And of course the project's social networking sites, though inactive, will still be available for reference, comment and sharing.
   
   
4. "Where shall I get my daily poetry now? Is there a similar project you might recommend, once A Year of Being Here concludes?" Again, there is no shortage of poetry berries to pick, if you're looking for them. But I can offer a few suggestions. First, you might join the many subscribers who have told me that they intend to start reading, or rereading, at the beginning of the website's archives—that's three years' worth of poetry, at one poem per day. Second, you might enjoy subscribing to Panhala, a free daily poetry service. ("Panhala" is Hindi for "source of fresh water.") I have subscribed for many years. The poetry, accompanied by photography, is available only via email. To subscribe, send a blank email message to Panhala-subscribe@yahoogroups.com. There is no need to put anything in the subject line or body of the message. Finally, I would encourage you to purchase volumes by some of your favorite mindfulness poets and make a commitment to reading some of their work on a regular basis. One poet tends to lead to another.
   
   
5. "Have you thought of doing an anthology of mindfulness poetry?" Yep. That was my original intention when I created A Year of Being Here, but I couldn't interest a publisher. Not wanting to waste the effort I'd put into the project, I decided to go online, at least for a year. That was three years ago! Given your enthusiasm for an anthology, I might eventually reopen my search for a publisher. My decision will rest in part on the results of a short online survey I'll soon be inviting you to complete, if you'll be kind enough to help me out.
   
   
6. "Are you a poet? Where do you live?" Nope, I'm not a poet (occasional songwriting doesn't count). I don't even know that much about poetry, beyond whether a certain poem speaks to me or not. I grew up in Ohio (USA) but now live with my husband and thirteen-year-old son in South Dakota.
   
   
7. "If you're not a poet, what kind of work do you do?" As I'm fond of joking, I do whatever doesn't make much money. I write books and music, do public speaking, am involved in peace and social justice efforts.... I'm fortunate to have a lot of creative freedom.
   
   
8. "What's next for you? How can I stay informed about your work?" At the moment I'm finishing a novel related to the U.S.-Dakota War of 1862. I have plans for another novel, and who knows, perhaps an anthology of mindfulness poetry(!). If you truly want to stay informed about my work, you can sign up for my mailing list on my website, follow my Facebook page or even my Twitter feed (@phylliscoledai). But let me warn you: As an introvert who would rather be doing other things, I tend to neglect my social media accounts.

I hope these answers are helpful. Thanks so much for your support and interest, everyone! Stay tuned for more end-of-project developments....

Deep peace,
Phyllis Cole-Dai

Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi: "Zero Circle"

Be helpless, dumbfounded,
Unable to say yes or no.
Then a stretcher will come from grace
     to gather us up.

We are too dull-eyed to see that beauty.
If we say we can, we're lying.
If we say No, we don't see it,
That No will behead us
And shut tight our window onto spirit.

So let us rather not be sure of anything,
Beside ourselves, and only that, so
Miraculous beings come running to help.
Crazed, lying in a zero circle, mute,
We shall be saying finally,
With tremendous eloquence, Lead us.
When we have totally surrendered to that beauty,
We shall be a mighty kindness.



"Zero Circle" by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi. Text as published in Ten Poems to Change Your Life, edited by Roger Housden (Harmony, 2001). Poem translated from the original Farsi by Coleman Barks.

Curator's note: Confronted by the terrible news out of Beirut, Lebanon, and Paris, France, I've set aside today's scheduled post and turned to Rumi. As I watch the coverage of these tragedies, it strikes me that the attacks were deliberate assaults not only on public places but on beauty—the beauty of cookery (restaurant), the beauty of drama (theater), the beauty of music (concert hall), the beauty of sport (stadium), the beauty of learning (school), and more generally, the beauty of human fellowship. Let us grieve the dead and wounded together, and in the name of beauty and our shared humanity, let us join together to be "a mighty kindness" in a world torn by the ugliness of violence and hatred.

Art credit: "Mysterious Blue Tunnel to the Light, Way to Another World," image by unknown photographer.

 

Margaret Chula: A Selection of Tanka

November morning
I help Mother
write her obituary
    wisps of fog
    shroud the maple leaves



meditation
there’s always something
to let go of
    the long slant of ash
        on the incense stick



cleaning out
Mother’s lingerie drawer
the tears in her stockings
sewn up so tightly—
all my unanswered questions



 yesterday’s desires
    what were they?
       a vase
    without flowers
holds only itself



walking the path
through the dark garden
moonlight shines
on the flower
with no scent

A selection of tanka by Margaret Chula. Text as published in Just This: Tanka (Mountains and Rivers Press, 2013). © Margaret Chula. Presented here by poet submission.

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.


 

Dennis Camire: "Encounter with Roofer"

When he drops his hammer for a noon sandwich

He’s like a Buddha atop a grand stuppa
As bare feet set over the eaves while he reads
Thich Nhat Hanh’s “Peace is Every Step.”

And thinking his earlier noise bad karma
For making my morning writing an uphill rhyme
I sherpa into the sacred space of his lunch break
And discover he’s read the whole of Kornfield

And, like me, practices that walking meditation
Where he imagines the soles of his feet
Massaging the vertebrae of mother earth’s
Tectonic plates. Now, sharing cool aid

And khoans, we’re like Tu fu and Li Po high
Atop some remote mountain peak shading
A river below eroding time and stone.
Later that afternoon, in the silence

Which announces the end of his work day,
I’ll climb a second time with the gift of a Hahn line
Decreeing “rainwater is the master bodhisattva.”
He’ll reply “those who say they know, don’t know;

Those who say they don’t know, know.”
And though we won’t exchange emails
To meet for a tea ceremony
Or to play our Tibetan bowls

As I help him throw the remaining shingles
Into the backed up truck below
Then gladly tie down the sliding ladder,
I know the leak of a future sadness has been sealed

"Encounter with Roofer" by Dennis Camire. © Dennis Camire. Presented here by poet submission. This poem was first published in Cardinal Flower, an online journal celebrating rural living in New England.

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Teddy Macker: "Prayer"

dear lord in this time of darkness

help us see the darkness

dear lord help us to not pretend

no more pretending

dear lord may our gaze be defenseless

and unshardable

teach us the piety of the open eye

dear lord in this time of darkness

may we be unafraid to mourn and together and hugely

may dignity lose its scaffolding

faces crumble like bricks

dear lord let grief come to grief

and then o lord help us to see the bees yet in the lavender

the spokes of sunlight down through the oaks

and the sleep-opened face of the beloved

and the afternoon all around her

and her small freckled hands  

“Prayer” by Teddy Macker. Text as published in This World (White Cloud Press, 2015). © Teddy Macker. Reprinted by permission of the poet.  

Art credit: Untitled image from an unknown photographer in this news story about Thursday's mass shooting in Roseburg, Oregon (USA).

Curator's note: All my thanks to the poet Teddy Macker for helping me prepare this post late last night, my time. I had another poem scheduled for today, but then I got word of the horrific shooting at Umpqua Community College. A different poem was needed. I emailed Teddy (a wonderful poet I've never met) in the off-chance I might get his permission to use his poem at the last minute. As it happened, he was just then reading online about the tragedy. At once he graciously agreed.

This project concerns poetry, not politics. But it also concerns mindfulness, which is as much about others as about the self. So allow me to say that President Obama is right: We need to offer everyone affected by this violence our thoughts and prayers, but our thoughts and prayers aren't enough.

We must mourn, but as Teddy says, we must also see "with the piety of the open eye." Let us vow: "No more pretending." For the sake of the beloved, let us demand action to address the underlying causes of these shootings.

Tamara Madison: "Behaving"

All day I have scowled and looked askance,
thrashing in a tide of hormones. I want
to make the world act the right way
and it has resisted. It will not see the obvious.
I want to tear out its eyes and place them
where they cannot help but see.

Until I go outside.

The warm, late-summer afternoon has spun down
to a balmy evening. A brassy sunset casts light
from somewhere in the sea. This light flows
around the trunks of sycamores arrayed in a row
and through their fluttering branches;
the air is tender on my bare arms and legs
and the world feels for this moment bathed in grace.

At last, I realize, the world is behaving.
At last, says the world, she is behaving.

 
"Behaving" by Tamara Madison. © Tamara Madison. Text presented here by poet submission.

Art credit: "Tahquitz Sycamores," watermedia on Yupo, painting by Randall David Tipton.

Anonymous: "Song for Going to the Water" [Cherokee]

If your heart is not well,
If your spirit is not well,
These words may help you.

Wake in the hour
Just before dawn.
Wake in the hours
Before first light.
Wake when the animals of the night
Have ended their songs,
When the animals of the day
Have not yet begun their songs.

Walk without words.
Follow the path
That leads to the stream.

Then, as the first light
Touches the stream,
Bend to the water,
Speak these words:

"Long Person, I come to ask your help."

Then hold up
A cup of that water
And drink the dawn.



"Song for Going to the Water," purportedly from the Cherokee tradition. Text as published in ISTEP + English/Language Arts Test Preparation and Practice Workbook, Glencoe Language Arts Grade 7, Teacher's Annotated Edition (The McGraw-Hill Companies, undated).

Art credit: "River Stour [near Wimborne] at Dawn," photograph by Andrew Child.