Category Archives: poetry

Every morning, so far.

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“When I lay prostrate in despair, Thou hast raised me to keep the morning watch.” That is a line from morning prayers in our prayer book, the first clause of which used to seem a little over-dramatic. No more. I’ve been realizing that it is my default setting, to wake up with a sort of dread, wondering how I will meet the needs of the day, Little Me?

Step by step, that’s how. First, get out of bed, because nothing will get better, nothing will be accomplished if I don’t take that first step. Although lately it seems the first step has been moved back to a moment before, with a confession to myself, “You, GJ, are lying prostrate in despair, but God is about to raise you up to keep the morning watch.” — Then comes the stepping out on to the floor.

Maybe this poem, in spite of its mention of spiritual patience, is not really about any of this, but the “every morning” heartens me.

LANDSCAPE

by Mary Oliver

Isn’t it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience? Isn’t it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?

Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.

Every morning, so far, I’m alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky—as though

all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.

Every season feeds upon the past. -Gioia

history, poetry, , ,


VETERANS’ CEMETERY
The ceremonies of the day have ceased,
Abandoned to the ragged crow’s parade.
The flags unravel in the caterpillar’s feast.
The wreaths collapse onto the stones they shade.
How quietly doves gather by the gate
Like souls who have no heaven and no hell.
The patient grass reclaims its lost estate
Where one stone angel stands as sentinel.
The voices whispering in the burning leaves,
Faint and inhuman, what can they desire
When every season feeds upon the past,
And summer’s green ignites the autumn’s fire?
The afternoon’s a single thread of light
Sewn through the tatters of a leafless willow,
As one by one the branches fade from sight,
And time curls up like paper turning yellow.
— Dana Gioia
Golden Gate National Cemetery

This poem feathers my nest.

poetry,

I think I’ll share a few of Dana Gioia’s poems over the next weeks, some with a thin connection to the season or current events. The subject of money, for example, is always up-to-date for most of us. And for the nation, the ownership of it, the earning or the distribution or taxing of money are topics that often come up when people talk about the upcoming election. Let’s take a short break from the usual to enjoy the poetry of it.

Money

“Money is a kind of poetry.”  – Wallace Stevens

Money, the long green,
cash, stash, rhino, jack
or just plain dough.

Chock it up, fork it over,
shell it out. Watch it
burn holes through pockets.

To be made of it! To have it
to burn! Greenbacks, double eagles,
megabucks and Ginnie Maes.

It greases the palm, feathers a nest,
holds heads above water,
makes both ends meet.

Money breeds money.
Gathering interest, compounding daily.
Always in circulation.

Money. You don’t know where it’s been,
But you put it where your mouth is.
And it talks.

— Dana Gioia

So Much Warmth

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We’re having a lovely Indian Summer this week, maybe a good time to post this poem by Robert Frost, one that I copied for my own re-reading from a library book, back when the children were copying their own selections to memorize.

I hadn’t yet read the quote from C.S. Lewis that I can’t locate at the moment, where he also points out (here’s my very rough paraphrase) how life is mostly full of troubles, but that God sprinkles in enough joy-filled moments to keep us from losing heart. This poem speaks of that experience.

*Happiness Makes up in Height What it Lacks in Length*

Oh, stormy stormy world,
The days you were not swirled
Around with mist and cloud,
Or wrapped as in a shroud,
And the sun’s brilliant ball
Was not in part or all
Obscured from mortal view —
Were days so very few
I can but wonder whence
I get the lasting sense
Of so much warmth and light.
If my mistrust is right
It may be altogether
From one day’s perfect weather,
When starting clear at dawn,
The day swept clearly on
To finish clear at eve.
I verily believe
My fair impression may
Be all from that one day.
No shadow crossed but ours
As through the blazing flowers
We went from house to wood
For change of solitude.

–Robert Frost