1043. Live the Question - Rainer Maria Rilke

I want to ask you, as clearly as I can,  to bear with patience
all that is unresolved in your heart,
and try to love the questions themselves,
as if they were rooms yet to enter
or books written in a foreign language.
Don't dig for answers that can't be given you yet:
you cannot live them now.
perhaps then, someday,
you will gradually,
without noticing,
live into the answer. 

1042. At The Zoo - Linda Pastan

at the Children’s Zoo

The children holding the python

all along its ten-foot mottled body

are like the blind men with the elephant—

what can they know

of what they hold beneath their fingers,

these not quite babies

still in the Eden of preschool,

sloughing off their winter jackets now

in the steamy weather

of the reptile house

And this creature they dare

to carry, this undulating river

of muscle, supple and curving and

thick as the arm of its keeper,

what does it know of sin

or apples, wanting only to follow the flick

of its two-pronged tongue

(like those blind men following

their tapping canes) to any place

its hunger takes it.

1041. One Of A Kind (abridged) - Walter Rinder

.

you 

a wonderful addition to life

for there is no one else like you

you are important

believe it  . . . know it

allow your realization

to radiate among

your fellow man

 for there is no one else like you

reflect your feelings

your hopes . . . your dreams

you have much to contribute

take your time

don't hurry

tomorrow will wait for you

for there is no one else like you

grow with your difference

be proud. . . to be happy

like yourself

become a new experience

for other people

they can learn from you

for there is no one else like you

the world needs you

when you hold back

the world is that much less

for there is no one else like you

1040. David - Ishion Hutchinson

.

You marveled at the vein in the marble.

The moment’s slight pulse when you approached.

His blood murmured when you neared, so I

believed, and still do. When I returned to

it, you were gone in the other country

of my head that will never, like him, age.

Long was I able to stare at the vein.

The giant must’ve just laughed and mocked him.

Then he imagined the giant’s fall, and heard

a restless quiet as far as Sokho.

He thought of the river near the vineyard,

its broad dreaming-stone. He knew it no more.

The animals looked inconsolable.

They knew their boy was lost to become king.

I was supposed to photograph you both;

but the stone sank in me and I didn’t;

my eyes going between David’s and your eyes

as the army, scattered, pushed us apart,

the tumult blotted out what I shouted

to you, which he heard, turned, nodded gently

with a killer’s uncommon sympathy.

1039. A Parenthesis - James Laughlin

.

(This poet defaces his couplets with parentheses)

[a word from the Greek coming from para (beside)

+ en (in) + tithenai (to put) whence to put in be-

side] this is a practice très mal vu (deplored)

by egoistical critics who point out that his

lines would be grammatically more correct with

commas or colons    the poet responds quite true

but would they still be mine    for him the paren-

theses ate small fortresses in which he can take

refuge from logic and conventional behavior    his

psychiatrist has a more sinister reading on the

(s) [are their shapes not bivulvar] but he holds

his peace since they content his bizarre patient.

1038. The Opening of Eyes - David Whyte

After R. S. Thomas

That day I saw beneath dark clouds,

the passing light over the water

and I heard the voice of the world speak out,

I knew then, as I had before,

life is no passing memory of what has been

not the remaining pages in a great book

waiting to be read.

It is the opening of eyes long closed.

It is the vision of far off things

seen for the silence they hold.

It is the heart after years

of secret conversing,

speaking out loud in the clear air.

It is Moses in the desert

fallen to his knees before the lit bush.

It is the man throwing away his shoes

as if to enter heaven

and finding himself astonished,

opened at last, 

fallen in love with solid ground.

1037. Missing the Boat - Naomi Shihab-Nye

.

It is not so much that the boat passed 

and you failed to notice it.

It is more like the boat stopping

directly outside your bedroom window, 

the captain blowing the signal-horn,

the band playing a rousing march.

The boat shouted, waving bright flags,

its silver hull blinding in the sunlight.

But you had this idea you were going by train.

You kept checking the time-table,

digging for tracks.

And the boat got tired of you,

so tired it pulled up the anchor

and raised the ramp.

The boat bobbed into the distance,

shrinking like a toy—

at which point you probably realized 

you had always loved the sea.

1036. Unloading The Elephants - David Wagoner

.

Out of the sliding doors

Of steel-gray boxcars

The trunks come groping

Through the gray morning.

Where are we now?

The greatest show

Is on earth, trumpeting

Down the steep ramps and bracing

Forelegs against the heavy

Heavenly bodies

They so carefully balance

Like the commandments 

Shouted to massive heads, to ears

Pondering old orders,

Older than canvas.

Why are you keeping us?

In a huge row, seventeen

Elephants. Why must we learn

From you? What have we done

To be so weighted down?

Trunks raised, they shuffle forward

To the long parade.

1035. Ruins - Linda Pastan

.

We picnic by these bleached ruins

a few miles from the village

where we bought this rough

bread and cheese, this bottle

of wine shaped

like a Cycladic goddess.

Nearby is Homer’s Aegean

where bathers in their sculpted

flesh, their beauty, might have been

the models for the limbs

now broken, the faces

fallen from the frieze

of this temple whose ruins

we love because they show

how life is both continuous

and brief and must

be honored with good wine,

with bread and cheese.

1034. I Love To See You - James Laughlin

in the box of paperclips on by desk

it’s a good place for you because I

can look at you when I’m telephoning

or typing a poem or putting poems in-

to the copy machine to send to maga-

zines that don’t want them    I tried

putting you in the little ormolu

frame where the daguerreotype of

great-grandmother Henrietta used to

be but it didn’t suit    you looked

too formal (you have lovely manners

but thank heaven you aren’t formal)

so I pushed up the paperclips in the 

box and leaned you against the heap

it can’t be very comfortable ( paper-

clips are harder than hay) but you’re

smiling away as if you loved it    I

hope you’re also smiling because you

love me so much you don’t care where

I keep you even in the paperclip box.

Her Reply

I like my picture to be in the box

where you keep your paperclips    I

imagine that when you reach for a

clip you are reaching out for me

it’s a gesture you’ve made a thou-

sand times (whenever you’ve needed

a clip) but now I hope it has be-

come different    given a new mean-

ing by my image    does the movement

of your hand now plead more for me

than thought or memory can    even

at this distance I feel the touch

of your fingers    do they feel they

are touching me    or must I become

again only the icon of my everyday

self as ordinary as your paperclips?

1033. It Happens To Those Who Live Alone - David Whyte

It Happens To Those Who Live Alone - David Whyte

It happens to those

who live alone

that they feel sure

of visitors

when no one else

is there,

until the one day 

and one particular

hour

working in the 

quiet garden,

when they realize

at once, that all along 

they have been 

an invitation

to everything

and every kind of trouble

and that life

happens by

to those who inhabit

silence

like the bees

visiting

the tall mallow

on their legs of gold,

or the wasps

going from door to door

in the tall forest 

of the daisies.

I have my freedom

today

because

nothing really happened

and nobody came

to see me.

Only the slow

growing of the garden 

in the summer heat

and the silence of that

unborn life

making itself

known at my desk,

my hands

still

dark with the

crumbling soil

as I write 

and watch 

the first lines

of a new poem,

like flowers

of scarlet fire,

coming to fullness

in a new light.

1032. Mindful - Mary Oliver

.

Every day

I see or I hear

something

that more or less

kills me

with delight 

that leaves me

like a needle.

in the hay stack

of light. 

It is what I was born for—

to look, to listen,

to lose myself

inside this soft world—

to instruct myself

over and over

in joy

and acclamation.

Nor am I talking

about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful

the very extravagant—

but of the ordinary,

the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.

Oh, good scholar,

I say to myself,

how can you help

but grow wise

with such teachings

as these—

the untrimmable light

of the world,

the ocean’s shine,

the prayers that are made

out of grass?

1031. Block - Linda Pastan

.

I place one word slowly

in front of the other.,

like learning to walk again

after an illness.

But the blank page

with its hospital corners

tempts me.

I want to lie down

in its whiteness

and let myself drift

all the way back

to silence.

1030. EXERCISE - W. S. Merwin

.

First forget what time it is

for an hour

do it regularly every day

then forget what day of the week it is

do this regularly for a week

then forget what country you are in

and practice doing it in company

for a week

then do them together

for a week

with a few breaks as possible

follow these by forgetting how to add

or to subtract

it makes no difference 

you can change them around

after a week

both will help you later

to forget how to count

forget how to count

starting with your own age

starting with how to count backward

starting with even numbers

starting with Roman numerals

starting with fractions of Roman numerals

starting with the old calendar

going on to the old alphabet

going on to the alphabet

until everything is continuous again

go on to forgetting elements

starting with water

proceeding to earth

rising in fire  

forget fire

1029. Swift Things Are Beautiful - Elizabeth Coatsworth

.

Swift things are beautiful:

Swallows and deer,

And lightning that falls

Bright-veined and clear,

Rivers and meteors,

Wind in the wheat,

The strong-withered horse,

And runner’s sure feet.

And slow things are beautiful:

The closing of day,

The pause of the wave

That curves downward to spray,

The ember that crumbles,

The opening flower,

And the ox that moves on

In the quiet of power.

1028. For The Traveler - John O'Donohue

.

Every time you leave home,

another road takes you

into a world you were never in.

New strangers on other paths await.

new places that have never seen you

will startle a little at your entry.

Old places that you know well

will pretend nothing

changed since your last visit.

When you travel, you find yourself

alone in a different way,

more attentive now

to the self you bring along,

Your more subtle eye watching

you abroad; and how what meets you

touches that part of the heart

that lies low at home:

How you unexpectedly attune

to the timbre in some voice,

opening a conversation

you want to take in

to where your longing

has pressed hard enough

inward, on some unsaid dark,

to create a crystal of insight

you could not have known

you needed 

to illuminate 

your way.

When you travel,

a new silence

goes with you,

and if you listen,

you will hear

what your heart would

love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing:

make sure, before you go,

to take the time

to bless your going forth,

to free your heart of ballast

so that the compass of your soul

might direct you toward

the territories of spirit

where you will discover

more of your hidden life,

and the urgencies

that deserve to claim you.

May you travel 

in an awakened way,

gathered wisely 

into your inner ground; 

that you may not waste 

the invitations which 

wait along the way 

to transform you.

May you travel safely, 

arrive refreshed, 

and live your time away 

to its fullest; 

return home more enriched, 

and free to balance 

the gift of days 

which call you. 

From: To Bless the Space Between Us

1027. Song For The First People - David Wagoner

.

When you learned that men were coming, you changed into rocks.

Into fish and birds, into flowers and rivers in despair of us.

The tree under which I bend may be you,

That stone by the fire, the nighthawk swooping

And crying out over the swamp reeds, the reeds themselves.

Have I held you too lightly all my mornings?

I have broken your silence, dipped you up

Carelessly in by hands and drunk you, burnt you,

Carved you, slit your calm throat and danced on your skin,

Made charms of your bones. You have endured

All of it, suffering my foolishness

As the old wait quietly among clumsy children.

Now others are coming, neither like you nor like men.

I must change, First People. How do I change myself?

If no one can teach me the long will of the cedar,

Let me become Water Dog, Bitteroot, or Shut Beak.

Change me. Forgive me. I will learn to crawl, stand, or fly

Anyshere among you, forever, as though among great elders.

1026. Photograph - Cynthia Rylant

From: Something Permanent 

Photo by Walker Evans

He washed his feet for the picture,

even his knees,

and wondered about that man

who cared enough to want him to sit there

for a photograph

even though he didn’t have

nothing good to hold in his hands,

nor even a dog to sit by his chair.

It gave him, briefly,

some sort of feeling

of just being

enough.

1025. The Old Poets of China - Mary Oliver

Wherever I am, the world comes after me.

It offers me its busyness. It does not believe

that I do not want it. Now I understand

why the old poets of China went so far and high

into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

1024. A Small Eternity - Robert Penn Warren

.

The time comes when you count the names—whether

dim or flaming in the head’s dark, or whether

In stone cut, time-crumbling or moss-glutted.

You count the names to reconstruct yourself.

But a face remembered may blur, even as you stare

At a headstone. Or sometimes a face, as though from air,

Will stare at you with a boyish smile—but, not

Stone-moored, blows away like dandelion fuzz.

It is very disturbing. It is as though you were

The idiot boy who ventures out on pond-ice

Too thin and hears here—hears there—the creak

And crackling spread. That is the sound Reality

Makes as it gives beneath your metaphysical

Poundage. Memory dies. Or lies. Time

Is a wind that never shifts air. Pray only

That, in the midst of selfishness, some

Small act of careless kindness, half-unconscious, some

Unwitting smile or brush of lips, may glow

In some other mind’s dark that’s lost your name, but stumbles

Upon that momentary Eternity.