Elizabeth Smither: "The Sea Question"

The sea asks "How is your life now?"
It does so obliquely, changing colour.
It is never the same on any two visits.

It is never the same in any particular
Only in generalities: tide and such matters
Wave height and suction, pebbles that rattle.

It doesn't presume to wear a white coat
But it questions you like a psychologist
As you walk beside it on its long couch.

"The Sea Question" by Elizabeth Smither, from The Tudor Style. © Auckland University Press, 1993.

Photography credit: "The Winter Beach / La Playa de Invierno," by Jesus Solana (originally color).

Marie Howe: "What the Living Do"

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably
     fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes
     have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we
     spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight
     pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and
     I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street,
     the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying
     along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my
     wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called 
     that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to
     pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and
     then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the
     window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing
     so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm
     speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

"What the Living Do" by Marie Howe, from What the Living Do: Poems. © W. W. Norton & Company, 1999.

Photography credit: Untitled by Steenaire (originally black and white).

Tess Gallagher: "Walking Meditation with Thich Nhat Hanh"

Fifty of us follow him loosely
up the mountain at Deer Park Monastery.
We are in the slow motion of a dream
lifting off the dreamer's brow. Steps
into steps and the body rising out
of them like smoke from a fire
with many legs. Gradually the flames
die down and the earth is finally under us.
Inside the mountain a centipede crawls
into no-up, no-down.

Our meditations
waver and recover us, waver
and reel us in to our bodies
like fish willing at last to take on the joy
of being fish, in or out of the water.
When we gather at last at the summit
and sit with him
we know we have moved the mountain
to its top as much as it carried us
deeply into each step.

Going down is the same.
We breathe and step. Breathe,
and step. A many-appendaged being
in and out of this world. No use
telling you about peace attained.
Get out of your feet.
Your breath. Enter
the mountain.



"Walking Meditation with Thich Nhat Hanh" by Tess Gallagher, from Dear Ghosts: Poems. © Graywolf Press, 2008.  

Image credit: "Walking Meditation III," print by Jenny Waelti-Walters (originally color).


 

Naomi Shihab Nye: "Kindness"

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night
with plans and the simple breath
that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness
as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow
as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness
that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day
to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend

"Kindness" by Naomi Shihab Nye, from The Words Under the Words: Selected Poems. © Eighth Mountain Press, 1995.

Photography credit: "A monk prays for a dead man in the station hall of the Shanxi Taiyuan Train Station in Shanxi, China, November 25, 2011," by REUTERS/Asianewsphoto (originally color).


 

James Berry: "Benediction"

Thanks to the ear
that someone may hear

Thanks to seeing
that someone may see

Thanks to feeling
that someone may feel

Thanks to touch
that one may be touched

Thanks to flowering of white moon
and spreading shawl of black night
holding villages and cities together

"Benediction" by James Berry, from Hot Earth Cold Earth. © Bloodaxe Books, 1995.

Image credit: "Senses," computer wacom brush painting, by Bob Salo (originally color).

Li-Young Lee: "Praise Them"

The birds don’t alter space.

They reveal it. The sky
never fills with any
leftover flying. They leave
nothing to trace. It is our own
astonishment collects
in chill air. Be glad.
They equal their due
moment never begging,
and enter ours
without parting day. See
how three birds in a winter tree
make the tree barer.
Two fly away, and new rooms
open in December.
Give up what you guessed
about a whirring heart, the little
beaks and claws, their constant hunger.
We’re the nervous ones.
If even one of our violent number
could be gentle
long enough that one of them
found it safe inside
our finally untroubled and untroubling gaze,
who wouldn’t hear
what singing completes us?

"Praise Them" by Li-Young Lee, from Book of My Nights: Poems. © BOA Editions, Ltd., 2001.

Image credit: Untitled watercolor by ThimbleSparrow (originally color).


 

Clarice Thompson: "Morning in December"

In the dark kitchen

I raise the window shade.

The morning star glistens.

alone in black space.

Something in me, near my heart,

soars up to meet it,

touches it briefly

and returns.

How insignificant I am,

How tiny in a universe

where even that star

is miniscule.

I turn from the window,

reassured, stronger.

My tiny world, larger

almost in order.

"Morning in December" by Clarice Thompson. Published by Lansing Online News, April 17, 2011.

Photography credit: Detail of "December Moon Meets Evening Star," by Dan Bush (originally color).


 

Barbara Crooker: "Praise Song"

Praise the light of late November,

the thin sunlight that goes deep in the bones.

Praise the crows chattering in the oak trees;

though they are clothed in night, they do not

despair. Praise what little there's left:

the small boats of milkweed pods, husks, hulls,

shells, the architecture of trees. Praise the meadow

of dried weeds: yarrow, goldenrod, chicory,

the remains of summer. Praise the blue sky

that hasn't cracked yet. Praise the sun slipping down

behind the beechnuts, praise the quilt of leaves

that covers the grass: Scarlet Oak, Sweet Gum,

Sugar Maple. Though darkness gathers, praise our crazy

fallen world; it's all we have, and it's never enough.

"Praise Song" by Barbara Crooker, from Radiance. © Wordpress, 2005.

Photography credit: "Dead Milkweed Leaves," by cameron

(originally black and white).


 

Moya Cannon: "Introductions"

Some of what we love

we stumble upon —

a purse of gold thrown on the road,

a poem, a friend, a great song.

And more

discloses itself to us —

a well among green hazels,

a nut thicket —

when we are worn out searching

for something quite different.

And more

comes to us, carried

as carefully

as a bright cup of water,

as new bread.

"Introductions" by Moya Cannon, from The Parchment Boat. © Gallery Books, 1998.  

Image credit: "Holding My Stress in a Teacup," painting by Shiloh Sophia McCloud (originally color).


 

Tim Nolan: "Thanksgiving"

Thanks for the Italian chestnuts—with their

tough shells—the smooth chocolaty

skin of them—thanks for the boiling water—

itself a miracle and a mystery—

thanks for the seasoned sauce pan

and the old wooden spoon—and all

the neglected instruments in the drawer—

the garlic crusher—the bent paring knife—

the apple slicer that creates six

perfect wedges out of the crisp Haralson—

thanks for the humming radio—thanks

for the program on the radio

about the guy who was a cross-dresser—

but his wife forgave him—and he

ended up almost dying from leukemia—

(and you could tell his wife loved him

entirely—it was in her deliberate voice)—

thanks for the brined turkey—

the size of a big baby—thanks—

for the departed head of the turkey—

the present neck—the giblets

(whatever they are)—wrapped up as

small gifts inside the cavern of the ribs—

thanks—thanks—thanks—for the candles

lit on the table—the dried twigs—

the autumn leaves in the blue Chinese vase—

thanks—for the faces—our faces—in this low light.

"Thanksgiving" by Tim Nolan, from And Then. © New Rivers Press, 2012.

Photography credit: Untitled by Anita at her Bloomin' Workshop blog (originally color).


 

Joy Harjo: "Perhaps the World Ends Here"

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

"Perhaps the World Ends Here" by Joy Harjo, from Reinventing the Enemy's Language: Contemporary Native Women's Writings of North America, edited by Joy Harjo and Gloria Bird. © W. W. Norton and Co., 1998.

Image credit: This oil painting has two online attributions. The first is "Prayer before Meal," by Vicente Manansala (originally color). The other is "Family Prayer," by Fay Ocampo. If you have definitive knowledge about the artist, please leave a comment.

Jane Kenyon: "Happiness"

There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
                     It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

"Happiness" by Jane Kenyon, from Otherwise: New and Selected Poems. © Graywolf Press, 2005.  

Image credit: "Prodigal Son," oil on canvas, by Oleg Korolev (originally color).

Antonio Machado: "Walker"

Walker, your footsteps

are the road, and nothing more.

Walker, there is no road,

the road is made by walking.

Walking you make the road,

and turning to look behind

you see the path you never

again will step upon.

Walker, there is no road,

only foam trails on the sea.

"Walker" by Antonio Machado, from Border of a Dream: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado, edited and translated from the Spanish by Willis Barnstone. © Copper Canyon Press, 2003.

Photography credit: Detail of foam trails, from an untitled image by Faliriotissa (originally color).

Gregory Orr: Untitled ["This Is What Was Bequeathed Us"]

This is what was bequeathed us:

This earth the beloved left

And, leaving,

Left to us.

No other world

But this one:

Willows and the river

And the factory

With its black smokestacks.

No other shore, only this bank

On which the living gather.

No meaning but what we find here.

No purpose but what we make.

That, and the beloved’s clear instructions:

Turn me into song; sing me awake.

Untitled ["This Is What Was Bequeathed Us"], from How Beautiful the Beloved. © Copper Canyon Press, 2009.

Image credit: Untitled by DigitalVision, Ltd. (originally color).



 

Ellen Bass: "Remodeling the Bathroom"

If this were the last
day of my life, I wouldn't complain
about the shower curtain rod
in the wrong place, even though
it's drilled into the tiles.
Nor would I fret
over water marks on the apricot
satin finish paint, half sick
that I should have used semigloss. No.
I'd stand in the doorway
watching sun glint
off the chrome faucet, breathing in
the silicone smell. I'd wonder
at the plumber, as he adjusted the hot
and cold water knobs. I'd stare
at the creases behind his ears and the gray
flecks in his stubble. I'd have to hold
myself back from touching him. Or maybe
I wouldn't. Maybe I'd stroke
his cheek and study
his eyes the amber of cellos, his rumpled
brow, the tiny garnet
threads of capillaries, his lips
resting together, quiet as old friends—
I'd gaze at him
as though his were the first
face I'd ever seen.

"Remodeling the Bathroom" by Ellen Bass, from Mules of Love. © BOA Editions, 2002.

Photography credit: Detail from an image found online at this link (originally color).

Hilda Morley: "New York Subway"

The beauty of people in the subway
that evening, Saturday, holding the door for whoever
was slower or
left behind
                   (even with
                   all that Saturday-night
                   excitement)
& the high-school boys from Queens, boasting,
joking together
proudly in their expectations
& power,       young frolicsome
bulls,
          & the three office-girls
each strangely beautiful,             the Indian
with dark skin & the girl with her haircut
very short and fringed, like Joan
at the stake,             the corners
of her mouth laughing
                                 & the black girl delicate
as a doe, dark-brown in pale-brown clothes
& the tall woman in a long caftan, the other day,
serene & serious        & the Puerto Rican
holding the door for more than 3 minutes for
the feeble, crippled, hunched little man who
could not raise his head,
                                      whose hand I held, to
help him into the subway-car—
                                                    so we were
joined in helping him               & someone,
seeing us, gives up his seat,
                                             learning
from us what we had learned from each other.

 "New York Subway" by Hilda Morley, from To Hold My Hand: Selected Poems 1955-1983. © The Sheep Meadow Press, 1983.

Photography credit: "Old Man on Subway," acrylic on canvas, by Leonardo Ruggieri.


 

David Shumate: "Shooting the Horse"

I unlatch the stall door, step inside, and stroke the silky neck
of the old mare like a lover about to leave. I take an ear in
hand, fold it over, and run my fingers across her muzzle. I
coax her head up so I can blow into those nostrils. All part of
the routine we taught each other long ago. I turn a half turn,
pull a pistol from my coat, raise it to that long brow with the
white blaze and place it between her sleepy eyes. I clear my
throat. A sound much louder than it should be. I squeeze the
trigger and the horse's feet fly out from under her as gravity
gives way to a force even more austere, which we have named
mercy.

 

"Shooting the Horse" by David Shumate, from High Water Mark. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004.

Photography credit: "Horse Eye," by Dimitar Hristov (originally color).


 

Li Po: "Zazen on Ching-t'ing Mountain"

                                    The birds have vanished down the sky.
                                    Now the last cloud drains away.

                                    We sit together, the mountain and me,
                                    until only the mountain remains.

"Zazen on Ching-t'ing Mountain" by Li Po, translated from the Chinese by Sam Hamill. Published in Yellow River: Three Hundred Poems from the Chinese, edited by Sam Hamill. © BOA Editions, 2000.

Photography credit: "Zhangziajie, China, 2012," by Lydia Goetze (originally black and white).

David Whyte: "Everything Is Waiting for You"

Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice. You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

"Everything Is Waiting for You" by David Whyte, from Everything Is Waiting for You. © Many Rivers Press, 2003.

Image credit: "Pots and Pans," oil on canvas, by Hazel Ferrie (originally color).

Yunus Emre: Untitled ["A Single Word Can Brighten the Face"]

A single word can brighten the face
of one who knows the value of words.
Ripened in silence, a single word
acquires a great energy for work.

War is cut short by a word,
and a word heals the wounds,
and there’s a word that changes
poison into butter and honey.

Let a word mature inside yourself.
Withhold the unripened thought.
Come and understand the kind of word
that reduces money and riches to dust.

Know when to speak a word
and when not to speak at all.
A single word turns the universe of hell
into eight paradises.

Follow the Way. Don’t be fooled
by what you already know. Be watchful.
Reflect before you speak.
A foolish mouth can brand your soul.

Yunus, say one last thing
about the power of words –
Only the word “I”
divides me from God.

Untitled ["A Single Word Can Brighten the Face"], by Yunus Emre, from The Drop That Became the Sea: Lyric Poems, translated from the Turkish and edited by Kabir Helminski and Refik Algan. © Shambhala, 1999.

Image credit: "Close to Silence: Sacred Geometry Animation," part of a performance artwork by Fawzia Reda (originally black and white).