Marge Piercy: "The Tao of Touch"

What magic does touch create
that we crave it so. That babies
do not thrive without it. That
the nurse who cuts tough nails
and sands calluses on the elderly
tells me sometimes men weep
as she rubs lotion on their feet.

Yet the touch of a stranger
the bumping or predatory thrust
in the subway is like a slap.
We long for the familiar, the open
palm of love, its tender fingers.
It is our hands that tamed cats
into pets, not our food.

The widow looks in the mirror
thinking, no one will ever touch
me again, never. Not hold me.
Not caress the softness of my
breasts, my inner thighs, the swell
of my belly. Do I still live
if no one knows my body?

We touch each other so many
ways, in curiosity, in anger,
to command attention, to soothe,
to quiet, to rouse, to cure.
Touch is our first language
and often, our last as the breath
ebbs and a hand closes our eyes.

"The Tao of Touch" by Marge Piercy, from The Hunger Moon: New & Selected Poems, 1980-2010. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2011.

Photograph: "Gentle Touch" by Ric Gillego, 2012 (originally black and white).


 

May Sarton: "Snow Fall"

 

With no wind blowing

It sifts gently down,
Enclosing my world in
A cool white down,
A tenderness of snowing.

It falls and falls like sleep
Till wakeful eyes can close
On all the waste and loss
As peace comes in and flows,
Snow-dreaming what I keep.

Silence assumes the air
And the five senses all
Are wafted on the fall
To somewhere magical
Beyond hope and despair.

There is nothing to do
But drift now, more or less
On some great lovingness,
On something that does bless,
The silent, tender snow.

"Snow Fall" by May Sarton, from Collected Poems: 1930-1993. © W.W. Norton & Company, 1992.

Photography credit: Paul Gutelius, 2006 (originally black and white).

Ioanna Carlsen: "Over and Over Tune"

You could grow into it,

that sense of living like a dog,   

loyal to being on your own in the fur of your skin,   

able to exist only for the sake of existing.   

Nothing inside your head lasting long enough for you to hold onto,   

you watch your own thoughts leap across your own synapses and disappear—

small boats in a wind,   

       fliers in all that blue,   

               the swish of an arm backed with feathers,   

a dress talking in a corner,   

               and then poof,   

       your mind clean as a dog’s,   

your body big as the world,   

       important with accident—

               blood or a limp, fur and paws.   

You swell into survival,   

       you take up the whole day,   

you’re all there is,   

       everything else is   

not you, is every passing glint, is   

       shadows brought to you by wind,   

               passing into a bird’s cheep, replaced by a   

                              rabbit skittering across a yard,   

a void you yourself fall into.   

You could make this beautiful,   

       but you don’t need to,   

living is this fleshy side of the bone,   

       going on is this medicinal smell of the sun—

               no dog ever tires of seeing his life   

keep showing up at the back door   

even as a rotting bone with a bad smell;   

feet tottering, he dreams of it,   

wakes and licks no matter what.

"Over and Over Tune" by Ioanna Carlsen. Published in Poetry, March 2001.

Image credit: Unknown (originally black and white).

Marilyn Nelson: "Dusting"

Thank you for these tiny
particles of ocean salt,
pearl-necklace viruses,
winged protozoans:
for the infinite,
intricate shapes
of submicroscopic
living things.

For algae spores
and fungus spores,
bonded by vital
mutual genetic cooperation,
spreading their
inseparable lives
from equator to pole.

My hand, my arm,
make sweeping circles.
Dust climbs the ladder of light.
For this infernal, endless chore,
for these eternal seeds of rain:
Thank you. For dust.

"Dusting" by Marilyn Nelson, from Poems for a Small Planet: Contemporary American Nature Poetry, edited by Robert Pack and Jay Parini. © Middlebury College Press, 1993.

Photography credit: Unknown (originally color).


 

Judy Sorum Brown: "Wooden Boats"

I have a brother who builds wooden boats,
Who knows precisely how a board
Can bend or turn, steamed just exactly
Soft enough so he, with help of friends,
Can shape it to the hull.

The knowledge lies as much
Within his sure hands on the plane
As in his head;
It lies in love of wood and grain,
A rough hand resting on the satin
Of the finished deck.

Is there within us each
Such artistry forgotten
In the cruder tasks
The world requires of us,
The faster modern work
That we have
Turned our life to do?

Could we return to more of craft
Within our lives,
And feel the way the grain of wood runs true,
By letting our hands linger
On the product of our artistry?
Could we recall what we have known
But have forgotten,
The gifts within ourselves,
Each other too,
And thus transform a world
As he and friends do,
Shaping steaming oak boards
Upon the hulls of wooden boats?

"Wooden Boats" by Judy Sorum Brown, from The Sea Accepts All Rivers & Other Poems. © Miles River Press, 2000.

Photography credit: Unknown (originally color).


 

Billy Collins: "Shoveling Snow with the Buddha"

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow. 

 

"Shoveling Snow with the Buddha" by Billy Collins, from Picnic, Lightning. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 1998.

Photograph: Detail of image by Mike Yoder (originally color).

Wu-Men: "Ten Thousand Flowers in Spring"

Ten thousand flowers in spring, the moon in autumn,
a cool breeze in summer, snow in winter.
If your mind isn’t clouded by unnecessary things,
this is the best season of your life.

"Ten Thousand Flowers in Spring" by Wu-Men, from The Englightened Heart: An Anthology of Sacred Poetry, edited by Stephen Mitchell. © Harper Perennial, 1993.

Photograph: "Four Generations," by Mallory Renee Photography (originally black and white).

R. T. Smith: "Hardware Sparrows"

Out for a deadbolt, light bulbs
and two-by-fours, I find a flock
of sparrows safe from hawks

and weather under the roof
of Lowe's amazing discount
store. They skitter from the racks

of stockpiled posts and hoses
to a spill of winter birdseed
on the concrete floor. How

they know to forage here,
I can't guess, but the automatic
door is close enough,

and we've had a week
of storms. They are, after all,
ubiquitous, though poor,

their only song an irritating
noise, and yet they soar
to offer, amid hardware, rope

and handyman brochures,
some relief, as if a flurry
of notes from Mozart swirled

from seed to ceiling, entreating
us to set aside our evening
chores and take grace where

we find it, saying it is possible,
even in this month of flood,
blackout and frustration,

to float once more on sheer
survival and the shadowy
bliss we exist to explore.

"Hardware Sparrows" by R. T. Smith, from Messenger: Poems. © Louisiana State University Press, 2001.

Image: "Sparrows," acrylic painting by Spangles44 Blinkagain (originally color).

Robert Friend: "The Last Year"

This is the last year.
There will be no other,
but heartless nature
seemingly relents.
Never has a winter sun
spilled so much light,
never have so many flowers
dared such early bloom.
The air is brilliant, sharp.
Never have I taken
such long, long breaths.



Written after being diagnosed with terminal cancer.

"The Last Year" by Robert Friend, from Dancing with a Tiger: Poems 1941-1998, edited by Edward Field, 2003. © Jean Shapiro Cantu.

Image: "Breath of Life," acrylic painting with charcoal overlay by Dawn Thibodeaux, 1998 (originally black and white).

Arthur Sze: "Frost"

Notice each windowpane has a different
Swirling pattern of frost etched on the glass.

And notice how slowly the sun melts
The glaze. It is indelible: a fossil of a fern,

Or a coelacanth, or a derelict who
Rummages in his pockets and pulls out a few

Apple cores. Notice the peculiar
angle of light in the slow shift of sunrise.

Where is the whir of the helicopter?
The search for escaped convicts in the city?

Be amazed at the shine and the wet.
Simply to live is a joy.

"Frost" by Arthur Sze, from The Redshifting Web: New & Selected Poems. © Copper Canyon Press, 1998.

Photograph: "Frost on Window," by Joni Niemelä, 2010 (originally color).

Mary O'Connor: "Standing Up in the Boat"

In this moment
all seems possible and all is risked:
life, safety, the day’s catch
the voyage, the homecoming.

As waves pitch the currach,
nearly engulfing it, he stands
on a plunging, rearing ground,
the thrown rope hanging

between his hopeful face
and empty air, a huge blessing of rope,
coiled, spiralled, looping
towards his small reach, his unsteady stand.

Still here he is waiting, wet and salty
standing up on the lurch of the flimsy craft
leaning against air, against hope, in his proper
position to catch it, this rope

coming over to the weak inconstancy, himself—
now he takes a slight crouch, to be pushed a bit
up or down at the impact,  hands out
eyes open, face, heart:  here.



"Standing Up in the Boat" by Mary O'Connor, from Windows and Doors. © Finishing Line Press, 2012.

Image: "Off the Donegal Coast," oil on canvas by Jack Butler Yeats, 1922. This painting inspired the poem.

Marilyn Krysl: "Saying Things"

Three things quickly—pineapple, sparrowgrass, whale—

and then on to asbestos. What I want to say tonight is

words, the naming of things into their thing,

yucca, brown sugar, solo, the roll of a snare drum,

say something, say anything, you’ll see what I mean.

Say windmill, you feel the word fly out from under and away.

Say eye, say shearwater, alewife, apache, harpoon,

do you see what I’m saying, say celery, say Seattle,

say a whole city, say San Jose. You can feel the word

rising like a taste on the palate, say

tuning fork, angel, temperature, meadow, silver nitrate,

try carbon cycle, point lace, helium, Micronesia, quail.

Any word—say it—belladonna, screw auger, spitball,

any word goes like a gull up and on its way,

even lead lifts like a swallow from the nest

of your tongue. Say incandescent, bonnet, universal joint,

lint—oh I invite you to try it. Say cold cream,

corydalis, cotillion, cosmic dust,

you are all of you a generous and patient audience,

pilaster, cashmere, mattress, Washington pie,

say vise, inclinometer, enjambment, you feel your own voice

taking off like a swift, when you say a word you feel like

a gong that’s been struck, to speak is to step out of your skin,

stunned. And you’re a pulsar, finally you understand light

is both particle and wave, you can see it, as in

parlour—when do you get a chance to say parlour—

and now mackinaw, toad and ham wing their way

to the heaven of their thing. Say bellows, say sledge,

say threshold, cottonmouth, Russia leather,

say ash, picot, fallow deer, saxophone, say kitchen sink.

This is the birthday party for the mouth—it’s better than ice cream,

say waterlily, refrigerator, hartebeest, Prussian blue

and the word will take you, if you let it,

the word will take you along across the air of your head

so that you’re there as it settles into the thing it was made for,

adding to it a shimmer and the bird song of its sound,

sound that comes from you, the hand letting go

its dove, yours the mouth speaking the thing into existence,

this is what I’m talking about, this is called saying things.

"Saying Things" by Marilyn Krysl, from More Palamino, Please, More Fuchsia. © Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 1980.

Image: Detail from "Speaking Words of Wisdom," pastel on paper by Sandra Conley (originally color).

W. S. Merwin: "To Waiting"

You spend so much of your time
expecting to become
someone else
always someone
who will be different
someone to whom a moment
whatever moment it may be
at last has come
and who has been
met and transformed
into no longer being you
and so has forgotten you

meanwhile in your life
you hardly notice
the world around you
lights changing
sirens dying along the buildings
your eyes intent
on a sight you do not see yet
not yet there
as long as you
are only yourself

with whom as you
recall you were
never happy
to be left alone for long

"To Waiting" by W. S. Merwin, from Present Company. © Copper Canyon Press, 2001.

Photograph: "Girl Sitting and Waiting in an Urban Pavement Area," by Radu Razvan (originally black and white).

 

Marianne Murphy Zarzana: "Saying Our Names"

Notice how just one syllable—

say Jack—can expand and become

the world, round and whole,

when it is a child’s name

being formed by a mother’s mouth.

I’ve overheard women in stores and airports,

restaurants and trains, sprinkling their talk

with the name of a brand new baby or

a grown child, say Morgen or Nora,

Michael or Kyle, Joseph or Ava-Rose,

singing each vowel and consonant

so they stand out, resonate

a pure bell whether the tone struck

be proud and strong, a major key,

or a diminished minor note.

Sometimes, when my daughter catches

her own name, Elaine May, part of a story

I am telling a sister over the phone,

later she’ll ask, quasi-annoyed,

were you talking about me?

Yes, endlessly, shamelessly, I tell stories

about you. I say those fluid syllables,

chosen for the meaning—light—

the music, and to honor your grandmothers,

chosen after discarding countless names.

Yes, I say them again and again and wonder

at the world they have become. Is this

how God says our names? Is this why sometimes

when I hear the wind rustling through the trees,

I turn and listen?

"Saying Our Names" by Marianne Murphy Zarzana. Published in Dust & Fire, 2002.   

Image: "Storyteller," acrylic painting by Kate Langlois (originally full color).

 

Ivan Jenson: "Hearing Things"

Lately, I have been
listening to people
and places
people sound like
words and laughter
sneezes and song
places sound like
the hissy fit of the wind
and the fender bending
clash of traffic or
the shriek of cloud
busting jets
and sometimes
I just sit back
and listen to myself
travel through time
like an HG Wells
character
in this soft
in the middle
machine
and I swear
I sound
like a one-monk chant
in a temple
of wonder and doom



"Hearing Things" by Ivan Jenson. © Ivan Jenson.

Photograph: Unknown (originally color).

Benjamin Hoff: "Piglet's Song"

Let's find a Way today,
that can take us to tomorrow.
We'll follow that Way,
A Way like flowing water.

Let's leave behind,
the things that do not matter.
And we'll turn our lives,
to a more important chapter.

Let's take the time and try to find,
what real life has to offer.
And maybe then we'll find again,
what we had long forgotten.
Like a friend, true 'til the end,
it will help us onward.

The sun is high, the road is wide,
and it starts where we are standing.
No one knows how far it goes,
for the road is never-ending.

It goes away,
beyond what we have thought of.
It flows away,
Away like flowing water.

"Piglet's Song" by Benjamin Hoff, from The Te of Piglet. © Penguin Books, 1993.

Photograph: Unknown (originally black and white).


 

Malena Mörling: "Happiness"

How far away is your happiness?
            How many inches?
How many yards?
            How many bus rides to work
and back?
            How many doorways
and stairwells?
            How many hours
awake in the dark
            belly of the night
which contains
            all the world’s bedrooms,
all dollhouse-sized?
            How far away is your happiness?
How many words?
            How many thoughts?
How much pavement?
            How much thread
in the enormous sewing machine
            of the present moment?

"Happiness" by Malena Mörling, from American Poetry Now, edited by Ed Ochester. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007.

Photograph: Untitled, by Elizabeth Krumbach (originally color, horizontal).

  

Janet Loxley Lewis: "The Wonder of the World"

(for a choral piece by Alva Henderson, Autumn, 1979)

From the old stone
The carven words reproach me,
Beside the rows of quiet dead:

The wonder of the world,
The beauty and the power,
The shapes of things,
Their colors, lights and shades,
These I saw.
Look ye also
While life lasts.

Earth, air and upper air,
Earth, air and water I knew,
And the sun on my face.
The voices of women and men,
The shouting of children,
These I knew.
Harken ye, also.
Drink while life lasts
The wine of astonishment.

So spoke the stone.
 

[Poet's note:] The seven lines of the second stanza are taken from an
old Swedish gravestone, and are quoted by Olaus J.
Murie of Moose, Wyoming.

"The Wonder of the World" by Janet Lewis, from Poems Old and New 1918-1978. © Ohio University Press, 1981.

Photograph: Unknown (originally color).


 

Mary Oliver: "Mornings at Blackwater"

For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what will be, darling citizen.

So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life.

"Mornings at Blackwater" by Mary Oliver, from Red Bird: Poems of Mary Oliver. © Beacon Press, 2009.

Photograph: Detail from "Hands Cupping Water," by Ray Davis (originally color).

Pablo Neruda: "Sonnet XVII"

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

"Sonnet XVII" by Pablo Neruda, from 100 Love Sonnets: Cien sonetos de amor, translated by Stephen Tapscott. © University of Texas Press, 1986. 

Photography credit: Unknown (originally color).