Curator's Note: Giveaway Winner #1

Happy news for Marcia Dresner of Severn, Maryland (USA)! She has been randomly selected as a recipient in our End-of-Project Giveaway. Her gift will be A Year with Rumi: Daily Readings (Coleman Barks, editor).

Marcia is a retired editor and chemist. "I read poetry," she writes, "because it makes me think about life and the place of each of us in this life. This seems to be more, not less, important as I grow older."

Enjoy your year with Rumi, Marcia!

Deep peace,
Phyllis

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

Albert Huffstickler: "The Cure"

                   We think we get over things.
                   We don’t get over things.
                   Or say, we get over the measles
but not a broken heart.
We need to make that distinction.
The things that become part of our experience
never become less a part of our experience.
How can I say it?
The way to “get over” a life is to die.
Short of that, you move with it,
let the pain be pain,
not in the hope that it will vanish
but in the faith that it will fit in,
find its place in the shape of things
and be then not any less pain but true to form.
Because anything natural has an inherent shape
and will flow towards it.
And a life is as natural as a leaf.
That’s what we’re looking for:
not the end of a thing but the shape of it.
Wisdom is seeing the shape of your life
without obliterating (getting over) a single
                                                                  instant of it.

"The Cure" by Albert Huffstickler. Text as published in Walking Wounded (Backyard Press, 1989).

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown artist.

Gentle reminder: After a wonderful three-year run, this project will close on January 1. This website and associated social media will remain online as resources.

Jean Nordhaus: "I Was Always Leaving"

I was always leaving, I was
about to get up and go, I was
on my way, not sure where.
Somewhere else. Not here.
Nothing here was good enough.

It would be better there, where I
was going. Not sure how or why.
The dome I cowered under
would be raised, and I would be released
into my true life. I would meet there

the ones I was destined to meet.
They would make an opening for me
among the flutes and boulders,
and I would be taken up. That this
might be a form of death

did not occur to me. I only know
that something held me back,
a doubt, a debt, a face I could not
leave behind. When the door
fell open, I did not go through.

"I Was Always Leaving" by Jean Nordhaus. Text as published in Memos from the Broken World (forthcoming from Mayapple Press, January, 2016). Reprinted by permission of the poet.

Art credit: Untitled image of light escaping "Through the Door," a series by Aisling Jennings Photography.

Poet photograph credit: Phil Cantor (digitally altered by curator).


 

Patricia Fargnoli: "Winter Grace"

If you have seen the snow
under the lamppost
piled up like a white beaver hat on the picnic table
or somewhere slowly falling
into the brook
to be swallowed by water,
then you have seen beauty
and know it for its transience.
And if you have gone out in the snow
for only the pleasure
of walking barely protected
from the galaxies,
the flakes settling on your parka
like the dust from just-born stars,
the cold waking you
as if from long sleeping,
then you can understand
how, more often than not,
truth is found in silence,
how the natural world comes to you
if you go out to meet it,
its icy ditches filled with dead weeds,
its vacant birdhouses, and dens
full of the sleeping.
But this is the slowed-down season
held fast by darkness
and if no one comes to keep you company
then keep watch over your own solitude.
In that stillness, you will learn
with your whole body
the significance of cold
and the night,
which is otherwise always eluding you.

"Winter Grace" by Patricia Fargnoli. Text as published in Winter (Hobblebush Books, 2013). Reprinted by permission of the poet.

Art credit: "A little red bird house surround by snow covered tree branches at night [lit] by street lights," photograph taken by Mike Fisk during a blizzard in Wisconsin (USA), 2009.

David Ignatow: "Content"

I should be content
to look at a mountain
for what it is
and not as a comment
on my life.



"Content" by David Ignatow. Text as published in Against the Evidence: Selected Poems, 1934-1994 (Wesleyan University Press, 1993).

Art credit: "Annapurna South from Annapurna base camp (4,130 m) during sunrise," photograph taken in the Himalayas in north-central Nepal by Arite, April 2006.

Gentle reminder: Sign up for our End-of-Project Book Giveaway before midnight tonight. Get the details here.

Sarah Tremlett: "From the Rivers to the Sea"

                                               Time reveals that to

                                               execute means to begin

                                               and to terminate

                                               So all the rivers

                                               in each and every country

                                               flow into one sea

"From the Rivers to the Sea" by Sarah Tremlett. © Sarah Tremlett. Text and video presented here by poet submission.

Video credit: "From the Rivers to the Sea," contemplative haiku poetry film by Sarah Tremlett with audiovisual material as credited. © 2015. Premiered at TARP Audiovisual Poetry Festival, September 2015.

Poet's statement: "This film is a haiku poem film—i.e., based on the idea of a poem of 5/7/5 syllables. It reflects the original concept of the Oriental poem that is part of a painting (a poem painting), often of a natural landscape, with descriptive, philosophical writing going from the top to the bottom of the image.... I am very interested in how visual and aural motion on screen can contribute not only to meaning but to creating a zen-like state in an audience or viewer. This is not dissimilar to the rapt attention of the listener who is wholly engaged with the poet's voice when reciting traditional repetitive verse forms."

Gentle reminder: Sign up for our End-of-Project Book Giveaway before midnight tomorrow. Get the details here.

Harvey Shapiro: "Psalm"

I am still on a rooftop in Brooklyn
on your holy day. The harbor is before me,
Governor’s Island, Verrazano Bridge
and the Narrows. I keep in my head
what Rabbi Nachmann said about the world
being a narrow bridge and that the important thing
is not to be afraid. So on this day
I bless my mother and father, that they be
not fearful where they wander. And I
ask you to bless them and before you
close your Book of Life, your Sefer Hachayim,
remember that I always praised your world
and your splendor and that my tongue
tried to say your name on Court Street in Brooklyn.
Take me safely through the Narrows to the sea.



"Psalm" by Harvey Shapiro. Text as published in A Momentary Glory: Last Poems, edited by Norman Finkelstein (Wesleyan University Press, 2014).

Curator's note: Tonight begins the Jewish observance of Hannukah. Many thanks to Anita Goldstein and Chana Bloch for suggesting this poem, which, though written for Yom Kippur, certainly seems apt.

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Gentle reminder: You have a few more days to sign up for our End-of-Project Book Giveaway. Get the details here.

Danusha Laméris: "Thinking"

Don’t you wish they would stop,
all the thoughts swirling around in your head,
bees in a hive, dancers tapping their way across the stage.
I should rake the leaves in the carport, buy Christmas lights.
Was there really life on Mars? What will I cook for dinner?
I walk up the driveway, put out the garbage bins.
I should stop using plastic bags, visit my friend
whose husband just left her for the Swedish nanny.
I wish I hadn’t said Patrick’s painting looked “ominous.”
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t called.
Does the car need oil, again? There’s a hole in the ozone
the size of Texas, and everything seems to be speeding up.

Come, let’s stand by the window and look out
at the light on the field. Let’s watch how
the clouds cover the sun, and almost nothing
stirs in the grass.

"Thinking" by Danusha Laméris. Text as published in The Moons of August (Autumn House Press, 2014). Reprinted by permission of the poet.

Art credit: "Frosty Meadow," photograph taken along Fall River in Rocky Mountain National Park (Colorado, USA) by Brent Wiescamp, dated 09/29/2012.

Wiescamp writes: "Save for a decade in exile, I have lived in Colorado near the Rocky Mountains. I am in love with the (mostly) jagged peaks. Yet where I find solace, where my racing mind slows and my thoughts become singular and cohesive, is in the flats of the many meadows nestled amongst those mountains.... Quiet, except for the echoing bugle of bull Elk gathering their harems. I am grateful that I live here and that I am able to visit places like this. I am grateful that I can immerse myself in its peace and allow it to overcome me and give me rest."

Gentle reminder: Join our End-of-Project Book Giveaway by midnight next Tuesday. See the details here.

Reminder: Enter Our Book Giveaway, or Enjoy a Free Gift

Be sure to act before midnight on Tuesday, December 8th. In case you missed the original announcement, or were perplexed by yesterday's bad link (apologies, everyone), you can read all the details here.

Rainer Maria Rilke: "It's possible"

It’s possible I am pushing through solid rock
in flintlike layers, as the ore lies, alone;
I am such a long way in I see no way through,
and no space: everything is close to my face,
and everything close to my face is stone.

I don’t have much knowledge yet in grief—
so this massive darkness makes me small.
You be the master: make yourself fierce, break in:
then your great transforming will happen to me,
and my great grief cry will happen to you.




"It's possible" ["Vielleicht, dass ich durch schwere Berge gehe"] by Rainer Maria Rilke. Text as published in Selected Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke, edited and translated from the original German by Robert Bly (HarperCollins, 1981). 

Art credit: "Mountain wall in Norway," photograph by tupungato.

Curator's note: Another mass shooting on Wednesday in the United States. My heart is so heavy. Robbed of words. The dark enormity of needless suffering here and around the world "makes me feel small," as perhaps it does you. Yet each day we can choose to give ourselves up once again to the painful work of the "great transforming," both within and without. 

Richard Jones: "Rapture"

a bedtime story, after Tolstoy

 
In the desert, a traveler
returning to his family
is surprised
by a wild beast.

To save himself
from the fierce animal,
he leaps into a deep well
empty of water.

But at the bottom
is a dragon, waiting
with open mouth
to devour him.

The unhappy man,
not daring to go out
lest he should be
the prey of the beast,

not daring to jump
to the bottom
lest he should be
devoured by the dragon,

clings to the branch
of a bush growing
in the cracks of the well.
Hanging upon the bough,

he feels his hands
weaken, yet still
he clings, afraid
of his certain fate.

Then he sees two mice,
one white, the other black,
moving about the bush,
gnawing the roots.

The traveler sees this
and knows that he must
inevitably perish, that he will
never see his sons again.

But while thus hanging
he looks about and sees
on the leaves of the bush
some drops of honey.

These leaves
he reaches with his tongue
and licks the honey off,
with rapture.



"Rapture" by Richard Jones. Text as published in The Blessing: New and Selected Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2000).

Art credit: "Honey dripping from nest of Giant honey bee (Apis dorsata binghami)," photograph taken in Indonesia by Nature Picture Library.

Gentle reminder: Sign up for our End-of-Project Book Giveaway or download a free album of holiday music by Tuesday, December 8. Read the details here.

Derek Mahon: "The Mayo Tao"

I have abandoned the dream kitchens for a low fire
and a prescriptive literature of the spirit;
a storm snores on the desolate sea.
The nearest shop is four miles away—
when I walk there through the shambles
of the morning for tea and firelighters
the mountain paces me in a snow-lit silence.
My days are spent in conversation
with deer and blackbirds;
at night fox and badger gather at my door.
I have stood for hours
watching a salmon doze in the tea-gold dark,
for months listening to the sob story
of a stone in the road, the best,
most monotonous sob story I have ever heard.

I am an expert on frost crystals
and the silence of crickets, a confidant
of the stinking shore, the stars in the mud—
there is an immanence in these things
which drives me, despite my scepticism,
almost to the point of speech,
like sunlight cleaving the lake mist at morning
or when tepid water
runs cold at last from the tap.

I have been working for years
on a four-line poem
about the life of a leaf;
I think it might come out right this winter.

"The Mayo Tao" by Derek Mahon. Text as published in Selected Poems (Penquin Press, 2000), edited by Philippe Jaccotett.

Curator's note: "Mayo" refers to the County Mayo, in western Ireland. My thanks to subscriber Joyce Calvitti for suggesting this poem.

Art credit: "Keem at Night," photograph of Keem Strand in County Mayo, taken on February 16, 2010, by Larissa O'Duffy.

Poet photograph credit: John Allen (digitally altered by curator).

Gentle reminder: You can join our End-of-Project Book Giveaway, or download a free album of holiday music. See the details here.


 

Announcing Our End-of-Project Book Giveaway

Who is eligible for this giveaway? To participate, you must be

1. at least 18 years of age
2. a member of the Year of Being Here reading community (i.e., an email subscriber, a follower on Facebook or other social media, or a frequent visitor to the website)
3. a resident of the United States*

*If you're not a resident of the U.S., all isn't lost. Scroll down to the paragraphs pertaining to you very special people.


If eligible, how do you enter the book giveaway? Complete and submit a quick entry form. The information you share on the form will be used only for the purpose of this giveaway. Then it will be discarded.


What are the books to be gifted (one copy each)?

• A Year with Rumi: Daily Readings (Coleman Barks, editor)
• A Year with Rilke: Daily Readings (Anita Barrows, editor)
• The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry (Wendell Berry)
• The Book of the World: A Contemporary Scripture (Phyllis Cole-Dai, editor)
• Selected Poems (Barbara Crooker)
• Women in Praise of the Sacred: 43 Centuries of Spiritual Poetry by Women (Jane Hirshfield, editor)
• A Year with Hafiz: Daily Contemplations (Daniel Ladinsky)
• Red Suitcase (Naomi Shihab Nye)
• A Thousand Mornings (Mary Oliver)
• Ask Me: 100 Essential Poems (William Stafford)

When is the deadline? Submit your entry form by midnight on December 8, 2015. Ten recipients will be selected at random and announced throughout the month of December. All books will be mailed to the recipients no later than January 15, 2016.



What if you live outside the U.S.? Unfortunately you're not allowed to participate in the book giveaway, for legal reasons. But in lieu of that, please accept a free gift of music: `Tis a Gift: Christmas by Guitar, an album of tranquil holiday selections arranged and digitally recorded by Phyllis Cole-Dai, curator of A Year of Being Here. You can listen to its tracks here, and even download them as singles by clicking on the orange download link next to the titles.
 
To download the entire `Tis a Gift album, you will probably need to use your computer instead of a mobile device. Here are the instructions (don't let them intimidate you):

1. Go to Dropbox by clicking here (you don't need a Dropbox account). 
2. If you're prompted to sign up for Dropbox, click on the "No thanks, continue" option. 
3. Once you see the album playlist on your screen, click the blue "download" button in the upper-right corner of the window.
4. Choose "Download as .zip" from the dropdown menu.
5. Soon your computer should ask whether you wish to save the music in a certain location or to open (unzip) the files. Choose "Open with" [the name of a zip utility software will be displayed], then press "Enter."
6. The software will eventually open or expand the album. This might take a few minutes. Your computer will store the music as "`Tis a Gift", probably in your "Downloads" folder. Click on "`Tis a Gift" to display the individual track titles. You can either play them from there or save them to another location.

Enjoy the giveaway!

Marilyn Peretti: "Stepping Lightly"

We walk on air every day,
the weight of our bodies
pressing our luck, pressing
through time and space,
one single chance
to stomp our heavy foot upon
tender green fragility, or
with our wings of diplomacy
spread wide, float along
the line of life we’re given,
crushing nothing in our path.

"Stepping Lightly" by Marilyn Peretti. Text as published in Lichen: Poems of Nature (Splendid Press, 2013). © Marilyn Peretti. Reprinted by permission of the poet.  

Art credit: Photograph appears to be from this foreign-language site.

William Stafford: "Earth Dweller"

It was all the clods at once become
precious; it was the barn, and the shed,
and the windmill, my hands, the crack
Arlie made in the ax handle: oh, let me stay
here humbly, forgotten, to rejoice in it all;
let the sun casually rise and set.
If I have not found the right place,
teach me; for, somewhere inside, the clods are
vaulted mansions, lines through the barn sing
for the saints forever, the shed and windmill
rear so glorious the sun shudders like a gong.

Now I know why people worship, carry around
magic emblems, wake up talking dreams
they teach to their children: the world speaks.
The world speaks everything to us.
It is our only friend.




"Earth Dweller" by William Stafford. Text as published in The Way It Is: New & Selected Poems (Graywolf Press, 1998).

Art credit: "Windmill Against a Dramatic Prairie Sky," photograph by mavis.

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

Ruth L. Schwartz: "Versions of Ghalib: Ghazal I"["Everything sings, in each moment"]

            Ghalib was a 19th-century Urdu poet. These versions were developed
            from the prose translations provided by Aijaz Ahmad in Ghazals of
            Ghalib (Columbia University Press, 1971). Numbering corresponds to
            the numbers used in that volume.

            i

Everything sings, in each moment, a song—and is,

in the very next moment, unsung.

It's no use being a mirror which sees both sides;

both sides are wrong.

What you claim to know will fail you; so will

what you venerate. Drink up. Refill your cup.

Deliberately love kicks up dust

to irritate the eye between two worlds.

            ii

Each song loves and hates itself.

If there's a mirror which tells the difference, don't look.

Forget what you know; don't bother to believe.

Not-knowing is the only cup which can hold the world.

Where love has been and gone, the world grows honest.

Each thing sings: I am essential. I do not exist.

All you think you know is wrong. So is all you worship.

No matter how much you drink, there's more in the cup.

            iii

Praise the futility of song. Accept that the shine in the mirror

is wrong. You are not important.

What's a mirror, anyway? Who looks back from that bright glass?

It's love again, come to save us, or drive us mad.

The more you know, the less you see;

faith can't be drunk, though it fills your cup.

Love's like a dust which settles on all things

and clings like skin. Even the sky bows down to it.

              

"Versions of Ghalib: Ghazal I" ["Everything sings, in each moment"] by Ruth L. Schwartz. Text as published in Dear Good Naked Morning (Autumn House Press, 2005). © Ruth L. Schwartz. Reprinted by permission of the poet.

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Peg Runnels: "I Want My Grief"

to be brilliant, fast and gone.
Like Mozart. Or Stevie Ray.
Like fireworks. Boom! Flash!
Ooh, ahh. OK, done. Let’s go.

I want my grief to be brave.

Hurts more now, heals faster,
Grandma said, pouring salt
On a skinned knee.

I want to stand up to grief,

Stand it down, like the
Tiny man, big tank
In Tiananmen Square.

Because. Because if I am brave,

Bold, salty, open enough
The tank, the bleeding, the tears
Will stop sooner. I tell myself.

But grief laughs. Humbles me.

I lose keys, break cups, get lost.
Asked at CarMax Why are you
Selling this car? I burst

Into an embarrassment of tears.

A friend says, One doesn’t have grief,
Grief has you.
We wrestle, to the mat. I’m pinned.

But sometimes I break free.

Break patterns instead of dishes.
Start to write myself a new story,
To fling myself toward yes,

Begin to say, Oh. Now this. . . . Observe

What life brings. Reframe. Say,
I’m not wrestling grief,
We’re dancing.

So, I put my right foot in . . .
And turn myself about.

"I Want My Grief" by Peg Runnels. © Peg Runnels. Text presented here by poet submission.  

Art credit: "Dance Your Way Through Sorrow," photograph by anaPhenix.