Month: March 2020

“Pandemic” by Lynn Ungar

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry, Reader Recommended10 Comments

What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.

And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives
are in one another’s hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.

Promise this world your love–
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.

–Lynn Ungar 3/11/20

“Pandemic” by Lynn Ungar. Lynn’s 2012 book Bread and Other Miracles (AuthorHouse) is available at Amazon. 

* Thank you Hannah T. for your sweet email and for sharing this poem with us. 

“Perhaps the World Ends Here” by Joy Harjo

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry, Reader Recommended4 Comments

During my last break, many of you emailed me to say hello and to send a favorite poem. One such email was from Jeanne M. in which she offered today’s poem. She emailed me in early December, but I didn’t see it until I returned last week. I have a strong feeling I wasn’t meant to see it until now, when the darkness around us is deep. It fills me with hope, it wraps me in sorrow, it is simply perfect–for today, for every day.

I am so grateful for this blog, and for you, gentle readers. I say often that people most in need find it when they need it most, and the same can be said for me, too. I found this poem, thanks to Jeanne, when I was most in need, when I needed it most. Thank you, Jeanne, and thank You, every day. -christy

 

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

 

“Perhaps the World Ends Here” from The Woman Who Fell From the Sky by Joy Harjo (W. W. Norton and Company Inc., 1994). Copyright © 1994 by Joy Harjo.

“The Happiest Day” by Linda Pastan

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry3 Comments

It was early May, I think
a moment of lilac or dogwood
when so many promises are made
it hardly matters if a few are broken.
My mother and father still hovered
in the background, part of the scenery
like the houses I had grown up in,
and if they would be torn down later
that was something I knew
but didn’t believe. Our children were asleep
or playing, the youngest as new
as the new smell of the lilacs,
and how could I have guessed
their roots were shallow
and would be easily transplanted.
I didn’t even guess that I was happy.
The small irritations that are like salt
on melon were what I dwelt on,
though in truth they simply
made the fruit taste sweeter.
So we sat on the porch
in the cool morning, sipping
hot coffee. Behind the news of the day—
strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere—
I could see the top of your dark head
and thought not of public conflagrations
but of how it would feel on my bare shoulder.
If someone could stop the camera then…
if someone could only stop the camera
and ask me: are you happy?
Perhaps I would have noticed
how the morning shone in the reflected
color of lilac. Yes, I might have said
and offered a steaming cup of coffee.

“The Happiest Day” by Linda Pastan from Heroes in Disguise. © W.W. Norton, 1991.

“For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid” by William Stafford

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry4 Comments

There is a country to cross you will
find in the corner of your eye, in
the quick slip of your foot—air far
down, a snap that might have caught.
And maybe for you, for me, a high, passing
voice that finds its way by being
afraid. That country is there, for us,
carried as it is crossed. What you fear
will not go away: it will take you into
yourself and bless you and keep you.
That’s the world, and we all live there.

“For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid” by William Stafford from The Way It Is: New and Selected Poems. © Graywolf Press, 1998.

“For One Who Is Exhausted, a Blessing” by John O’Donohue

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry5 Comments

When the rhythm of the heart becomes hectic,
Time takes on the strain until it breaks;
Then all the unattended stress falls in
On the mind like an endless, increasing weight.

The light in the mind becomes dim.
Things you could take in your stride before
Now become laborsome events of will.

Weariness invades your spirit.
Gravity begins falling inside you,
Dragging down every bone.

The tide you never valued has gone out.
And you are marooned on unsure ground.
Something within you has closed down;
And you cannot push yourself back to life.

You have been forced to enter empty time.
The desire that drove you has relinquished.
There is nothing else to do now but rest
And patiently learn to receive the self
You have forsaken in the race of days.

At first your thinking will darken
And sadness take over like listless weather.
The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.

You have traveled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come to take you back.

Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.

Become inclined to watch the way of rain
When it falls slow and free.

Imitate the habit of twilight,
Taking time to open the well of color
That fostered the brightness of day.

Draw alongside the silence of stone
Until its calmness can claim you.
Be excessively gentle with yourself.

Stay clear of those vexed in spirit.
Learn to linger around someone of ease
Who feels they have all the time in the world.

Gradually, you will return to yourself,
Having learned a new respect for your heart
And the joy that dwells far within slow time.

From To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings by John O’Donohue, published in the U.K. as Benedictus.

John O’Donohue was a poet, theologian, and philosopher. He authored several books, including Anam Ċara, Beauty, and To Bless the Space Between Us, a collection of blessings published posthumously. His newest book, Walking in Wonder: Eternal Wisdom for a Modern World, was published in November 2018. He died on January 4, 2008.

Poem and Bio Source: On Being