Tuesday, April 2, 2019

Poetry, Again...Or Always

It's that time of year again; April marks National Poetry Month—a rather joy-filled time for all of us lovers of verse. So, in keeping with tradition, I will exclusively post poems this month.

Naturally, I begin with Mary Oliver. This selection, Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?, is a bit longer than usual, but it came to mind during some recent conversations I've had about showing up as our whole self—a not-so-often-easy thing to do. First we must discover the truth of who we are, and then we must live that truth with integrity. From my young understanding, it takes a lifetime. Read about Mary Oliver's own journey of discovery.

Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches
     of other lives—
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey,
     hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early summer,
     feel like?

Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you?

Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
     with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over
     the dark acorn of your heart!

No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
     that something is missing from your life!


Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
     in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
     continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
     with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?


Well, there is time left—
fields everywhere invite you into them.

And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
     from wherever you are, to look for your soul?

Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!

To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is
     the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
     not be afraid!

To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome
     with amazement!

To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
     god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,

nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
     present hour,

to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth,

to the tiplets of the honeysuckle, that have opened
     in the night

To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!



Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?

While the soul, after all, is only a window,
and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.



Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
     to the wild roses:
deny me not,
but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe

I even heard a curl or two of music, damp and rouge-red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.

For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
    caution and prudence?

Fall in! Fall in!



A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
     is coming with its own heave and grace.



Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
     upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?

And I would touch the faces of the daises,
and I would bow down
to think about it.

That was then, which hasn't ended yet.

Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge.

I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.

Cheers to poetry! Cheers to the journey!

Let us all ramble back home.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

All You Holy Women

“God comes to us as we are and allows our abilities to express Divine Truth.” I heard one of my sisters say this a few weeks ago. An obvious...