Tag Archives: poetry

Don’t Quit

Edgar A. Guest wrote this poem that seems apt now. I watch the students struggle each day with the end of the year coming. For a number they will transition into new schools and those that stay behind much change is around the corner. They seem apprehensive. I remind them daily that they will be able to stay in touch. Technology makes this world so different. We can pick up a phone or send a message via email, Facebook, or text. It would be easy to quit on the relationships they have built up over the year because they might not see each other daily.

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
when the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
when the funds are low and the debts are high,
and you want to smile but you have to sigh,
when care is pressing you down a bit – rest if you must,
but don’t you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns.
As everyone of us sometimes learns.
And many a fellow turns about when he might have won had he stuck it out.
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow – you may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than it seems to a faint and faltering man;
often the struggler has given up when he might have captured the victor’s cup;
and he learned too late when the night came down,
how close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out – the silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
and when you never can tell how close you are,
it may be near when it seems afar;
so stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit – it’s when things seem worst,
you must not quit.

Happiness

Jane Kenyon wrote this thoughtful poem about happiness. It is the flip side of a country song that suggests we look for love in all the wrong places. Happiness is right there in front of us. We see it and struggle to recognize it. Perhaps, it is just too obvious for us to see it and grasp it. There is just no accounting for happiness, because it just shows up and finds us.

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 basket maker,
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.

A Healing Place

I have not walked much lately due to time constraints. Nature is a place that allows me to learn about myself and create. Kathy and I spent a lot of time there last spring, summer, and fall. I struggle to write when I am not spending time walking. Today, we had a tornado watch and warning. As I drove home, the sky was dark to the north and east. Lightening flashed across the sky. I was reminded of the power nature holds and, at the same time, its healing touch as a creative source. I am not separate from it. I am a small piece.

This place–

It is a space,

I walk with purpose;

Yet, without purpose

There is no destination here.

The ground uplifts,

The sky shelters,

Breezes cool,

Leaves whisper secrets,

The Sun reveals.

Just be…

Be one;

Not above

Not below

I am integral.

A refuge

Nature`s wisdom shared

I am comforted

I heal

Just be.

In the Quiet Curve of the Evening

Life is uncertain. One thing I am certain of is unconditional love of a Creator and those close to me. I cannot explain or describe what they mean, but I have faith they exist.

Last weekend, Kathy and I participated in a special event for her niece. She was commissioned as a minister of the United Church of Canada. We sang this hymn during the celebrations. I am not sure how to credit the song.  Julie Howard wrote the lyrics, but I did not find links for her. As I head into the Sabbath, the words say it all for me.

In the quiet curve of evening,
in the sinking of the days,
in the silky void of darkness, you are there.
In the lapses of my breathing,
in the space between my ways,
in the crater carved by sadness, you are there.
You are there, you are there, you are there.

In the rests between the phrases,
in the cracks between the stars,
in the gaps between the meaning, you are there.
In the melting down of endings,
in the cooling of the sun,
in the solstice of the winter, you are there.
You are there, you are there, you are there.

In the mystery of my hungers,
in the silence of my rooms,
in the cloud of my unknowing, you are there.
In the empty cave of grieving,
in the desert of my dreams,
in the tunnel of my sorrow, you are there.
You are there, you are there, you are there.

There`s what you do

We live a personal story based on personal perspective.  I find it hard some days to not live too deeply in my story and forget the good things that happen. The kindness and generosity of people helped overcome many challenging times. I felt the breath of compassion.  I thank students and their families for lifting me up during difficult times.

Al Zolynas wrote this Zen-like poem and reminds me my narrative is only my narrative. Others see their truth differently and sometimes quite differently. And then there is poetry the act of doing, feeling, and sharing all wrapped up in one.

and then there’s what you feel
while you do it
and then there are the words
that come later
to describe, recreate, narrate it–
all at a third remove
from the doing. And
then there’s poetry,
a doing in words, the act of writing
and a pointing back to
the ultimate and absolute
the relativity of words
their limited and limiting circumscriptions,
their stalactites of feeling,
their penumbras of meaning,
the deep cave of their origin.

Long Live the Weeds

Theodore Roethke wrote this poem that echoes the writing of Shunryu Suzuki, Thich Nhat Hanh, and Thomas Merton. Frequently, I forget the need for weeds. They add to the richness of the garden I call my life. Roethke said it so eloquently: “These shape the creature that is I”. The good and the not-so-good of life help shape me.

Today, I talked with students about a need for resiliency, so when we run into those bumps along the road of life or find weeds in life’s garden, we realize they are there to make us a fuller and richer person. Often, when I look back, I see the beauty of something that I felt was harmful when it happened. Perhaps, I was just not ready for what I thought I wanted, needed to be patient, and wait my turn. Or I was not ready to fully understand what needed to learn and needed to mature.

Long live the weeds that overwhelm

My narrow vegetable realm!–

The bitter rock, the barren soil

That force the son of man to toil;

All things unholy, marked by curse,

The ugly of the universe.

The rough, the wicked, the wild

That keep the spirit undefiled.

With these I match my wit

And earn the right to stand or sit,

Hope, look, create, or drink and die:

These shape the creature that is I.

I Am Much Too Alone in the World, and not Alone Enough

Today, I talked with students whose main concern about school is they do not like it. One thing I gleaned was a reluctance to accept personal responsibility which should be something students learn in school. There are reasons for this lack of responsibility. One that is overlooked is responsibility is taken away from children.

What made this an interesting conversation was some of these students are ‘special needs’. In many ways they are bright, articulate problem-solvers frustrated by a system that has failed them leaving them to feel as if they were failing. They see school as a place they have to go and not a place of learning.

What was disconcerting is I am told just get them these students through the system. These children are someone else’s problem next year. We shuffle these students from school to school in this fashion, in effect sorted out of the failed system. Educators, politicians, and bureaucrats fail them daily.

Rainer Maria Rilke wrote this poem and it reminded me of one thing humans want in life: free will and to be part of conversations about them in honest ways. School is not  a game played with unrevealed rules, but a place of learning. What if adults took time, listened to children, and helped them find the path where we each learn new words each day?

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everyday jug,
like my mother’s face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

To Look at Any Thing

I have had a rare opportunity in life to be a teacher. The pinnacle was being a teacher at Stony Creek. I knew what it meant to be a teacher. I had several conversations today about what we share with each other. John Moffitt wrote this beautiful poem. I interpret part of the poem as being the need be present and share our stories. Teachers and hockey coaches can make a difference in children’s lives. I need to be vulnerable. Parker Palmer suggested teachers live at the most dangerous intersection of personal and private life. I will miss that aspect of the classroom. I got to be a teacher. I got to know what that meant, because I looked at it and lived it as fully. It brought peace to my life.

To look at any thing,

If you would know that thing,

You must look at it long:

To look at this green and say,

‘I have seen spring in these

Woods,’ will not do–you must

Be the thing you see:

You must be the dark snakes of

Stems and ferny plumes of leaves

You must enter in

To the small silences between

The leaves,

You must take your time

And touch the very peace

They issue from.

The Opening of Eyes

David Whyte wrote this wonderful poem and it resonated with me today. We hold considerable wisdom collectively and individually. We each need to open all our senses and be receptive to what we hold. It is in the silence that we learn so much.

Today, only a few students attended. I decided some time ago that our Fridays would be art day due to the low attendance. Students focused on activities and silence reigned. I heard in the silence they want to finish the year positively.

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
nor 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.

Silver Star

William Stafford wrote this wonderful poem. Today, as I wondered what I should post, I came across it. It is weird in a way, but I am rarely concerned with what people think about me. More accurately, I do not place much emphasis in quantity. I prefer quality in my relationships, people who think of me for the right reasons. They care and their words are true.

People are aware I am leaving the profession. It is to hear words of gratitude from students and their families, including former students. I do not hear the whole world say, “Good job”, but I hear the right part of the world saying it.

To be a mountain you have to climb alone

and accept all that rain and snow. You have to look

far away when evening comes. If a forest

grows, you care; you stand there leaning against

the wind, waiting for someone with faith enough

to ask you to move. Great stones will tumble

against each other and gouge your sides. A storm

will live somewhere in your canyons hoarding its lightning.

If you are lucky, people will give you a dignified

name and bring crowds to admire how sturdy you are,

how long you can hold still for the camera. And some time,

they say, if you last long enough you will hear God;

a voice will roll down from the sky and all your patience

will be rewarded. The whole world will hear it: “Well done.”