Tag Archives: poetry

The Panther

Rilke worked for the sculptor Rodin. Rumour has it Rilke could not write and grew frustrated. Rodin suggested he go to the zoo, observe and see one of the animals clearly, and write about those observations. The result was this poem which described the essence, from Rilke’s point of view, of this magnificent, trapped animal, a metaphor, in some ways for the sometimes trapped human essence and creative seat.

We, as humans, pace behind the bars that we construct for ourselves and have to look inside for power that allows escape. Our spirits reveal the power and beauty where ultimate personal and collective meaning are. In the quiet and stillness of being fully present to ourselves, much is revealed. Otherwise, the cages and bars of our own making capture us and refuse to let us go.

From seeing the bars, his seeing is so exhausted

that it no longer holds anything anymore.

To him the world is bars, a hundred thousand

bars, and behind the bars, nothing.

The lithe swinging of that rhythmical easy stride

which circles down to the tiniest hub

is like a dance of energy around a point

in which a great will stands stunned and numb.

Only at times the curtains of the pupil rise

without a sound … then a shape enters,

slips through the tightened silence of the shoulders,

reaches the heart, and dies.

A Time to Talk

Robert Frost’s poem foreshadowed a need to make real human contact. There are times we need to move beyond the virtual realities, set the hoe down, and engage in those friendly visits. Human contact in the form of sound, touch, smell, and visuals is a human need that cannot be overlooked. It is a sensual place and space to be. It touches our spirit and makes us whole.

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don’t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.

Today

I looked randomly for a poem today and found this one by Frank O’Hara. It seemed to fit the idea of today and the randomness of it. Getting settled back into a routine of reading and writing is one that brings about a certain feeling of randomness and surprises. There is some beauty in those surprises, just like there is in a poem.

Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas!
You really are beautiful! Pearls,
harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins! all
the stuff they’ve always talked about

still makes a poem a surprise!
These things are with us every day
even on beachheads and biers. They
do have meaning. They’re strong as rocks.

Limen

Some days, I sit and watch, listen, and sense the wonders of the world around me. Within these wonders, things and people invite me to remember things embedded within nature and in my life. The extraordinary emerges from the ordinary. Often, I overlook what and who is important in my life, who give and gave me unconditional support.

Natasha Trethewey shared this wonderful poem about the unobserved industry that goes on around me. It is not just busy industry. I focus on a particular calling in life. I find my voice in the work. For humans, there is a multiplicity in the work and the way it shapes life. Similar to the woodpecker, it seems I look for the gifts I overlook. There is more embedded in life than just hanging laundry and other obvious tasks I undertake. When I attend and am present, the barely perceptible–the liminal– is visible, heard, and fully sensed.

All day I’ve listened to the industry

of a single woodpecker, worrying the catalpa tree

just outside my window. Hard at his task,

his body is a hinge, a door knocker

to the cluttered house of memory in which

I can almost see my mother’s face.

She is here, beyond the tree,

its slender pods and heart-shaped leaves,

hanging wet sheets on the line–each one

a thin white screen between between us. So insistent

is this woodpecker, I’m sure he must be

looking for something else–not simply

the beetles and grubs inside, but some other gift

the tree might hold. All day he’s been at work,

tireless, making the green hearts flutter.

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

When I let go and awaken to the wonder of the ordinary world, it is love that allows me to see them as more than things and objects. I join those precious people and things in an extraordinary world. Sabbath moments allow this in a world of busyness.

Richard Wilbur wrote this wonderful poem that echoes the Zen Buddhist idea of seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary.

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.

Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks

From all that is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessed day,
And cries,
“Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.”

Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world’s hunks and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,

“Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits,
keeping their difficult balance.”

Dream Boogie

Stony Creek, where I taught for almost 15 years, was a special place. It does not exist other than in name only. It was a place where parents, students, and educators met and learned together. It was a place that defied the way ‘traditional schooling’ was done. The goal was to meet each child where they were in their learning and not force the child to fit the learning. For most of the time I was there, I taught and learned (those are not inseparable if we allow them to emerge together) in a way I could only dream possible. For those years, the dream was not deferred. It was real, but fragile as all dreams are.

I enjoy Langston Hughes and his wonderful poetry. Each year, I chose a poem or two from his wonderful writing and shared it with the students. I found that if I share my passion for learning and what excited me in my learning students and parents reciprocated. We lived and learned in community not in school. This is one of the poems I shared from that place.

Good morning, daddy!

Ain’t you heard

The boogie-woogie rumble

Of a dream deferred?

Listen closely:

You’ll hear their feet

Beating out and Beating out a —

You think

It’s a happy beat?

Listen to it closely:

Ain’t you heard

something underneath

like a —

What did I say?

Sure,

I’m happy!

Take it away!

Hey, pop!

Re-bop!

Mop!

Y-e-a-h!

Of High Solitude

When surrounded by the busyness of life, this poem is a call to other things where I find solitude. Wilfrid Wilson Gibson suggested the way the soul can find solitude in even the busiest of moments. I can look in and find those spaces even when they are not physically available. In those moments, I am present to those things and people who are most important in life. They are framed like a flower against the backdrop of majestic mountains.

Eagles and isles and uncompanioned peaks,

The self-reliant isolated things

Release my soul, embrangled in the stress

Of all days’ crass and cluttered business:

Release my soul in song, and give it wings;

And even when the traffic roars and rings,

With senses stunned and beaten deaf and blind,

My soul withdraws into itself, and seeks

The peaks and isles and eagles of the mind.

100_4724

Mindful Attitude

As I move into the New Year, this poem resonated. Being more mindful, allows me to be aware of the needed balance between passion and compassion. Life has a way of revealing a path when I am patient and open to multiple possibilities.

A mindful attitude–

Seek to choose well

Blend fiery passion

With compassion’s loving kindness.

Let life’s fruit mature;

Ripen deeply

Nurture life’s fully.

A spiritual banquet nourishes

Deepest meanings revealed

I Respond to life’s bounty.

Assume responsibility

For one’s self

For each other.

Welcome the world

Understand–

With childlike wonder

Become one;

Become whole

Transform the self.

At the Threshold

A colleague of mine, Laura Kinkead wrote this beautiful poem which is appropriate for this time of the year. As we await the New Year, there is a feeling of being at the threshold. It is a time to reflect on what and who is important in our lives as we enter the New Year.

The poem is a reminder that what brought me to this point serves to ground me. It is the people and things that have expressed their love in many ways that allow me to find moments of solace, abundance, and opportunities to linger as I cross each new threshold. I am gently reminded to listen to the soft voice from within that reminds me of the richness of life.

Summer’s abundance within me

and Winter’s rest ahead of me,

I linger

At the threshold,

What beckons me, pulls me forward,

calls deeply,

longingly,

What little voice reminds of what has come before

What do I gather up, too precious to part with,

And what do I leave behind

glad to rest beneath the soil

to become the rich humus of tomorrow

I stand with the the sun’s warmth upon my face

as the wind pulls another leaf slowly to the ground

 

Invictus

Life is a spiritual event. Those people and things we love inspire us to keep our heads up and our souls unconquerable. William Ernest Henley provided us with wonderful words that echo this way of understanding life and its relationships.

Apparently, this was Nelson Mandela’s favourite poem. When I read it, I understand what made it important in his life and what it reveals about leadership.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.