The Way It Is

There's a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn't change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can't get lost.
Tragedies happen. People get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time's unfolding.
You don't ever let go of the thread.


William Stafford, The Way It Is: New and Selected Poems (1999)

Weather

My father would lift me
to the ceiling in his big hands
and ask, How's the weather up there?
And it was good, the weather
of being in his hands, his breath
of scotch and cigarettes, his face
smiling from the world below.
O Daddy, was the lullaby I sang
back down to him as he stood on earth,
my great, white-shirted father, home
from work, his gold wristwatch
and wedding band gleaming
as he held me above him,
for as long as he could,
before his strength failed
down there in the world I find myself
standing in tonight, my little boy
looking down from his flight
below the ceiling, cradled in my hands,
his eyes wide and already staring
into the distance beyond the man
asking him again and again,
How's the weather up there?

George Bilgere, Imperial (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2014)

When Giving Is All We Have

                                   One river gives
                                   Its journey to the next.

We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.

We give because giving changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.

We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it --

Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,
Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.

Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and over again:

Giving is, first and every time, hand-to-hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine.

You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.
Together we are simple green. You gave me

What you did not have and I gave you
What I had to give -- together, we made

 Something greater from the difference.

Alberto Rios, A Small Story about the Sky (Copper Canyon Press, 2015)

from "Discordants"

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved, --
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember you always, --
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.

Conrad Aiken, Poetry, September, 1915

Haiku by Basho

      A cicada shell;
it sang itself
      utterly away


      Midnight frost --
I'd borrow
      the scarecrow's shirt


      A bee
staggers out
      of the peony


      Year after year
on the monkey's face
      a monkey face


      My summer robes --
there are still some lice
      I haven't caught


      The dragonfly
can't quite land
      on that blade of grass

Matsuo Basho (1644-1694) was not only the most famous Japanese poet of his time; today, after centuries of commentary, he is recognized as the greatest master of haiku. His poetry is internationally renowned, and, in Japan, many of his poems are reproduced on monuments and traditional sites.

Puberty -- With Capital Letters

There went being a kid. There went
Barbie dolls, baby dolls, kitchen sets, play-
doh, crayons, make-believe (well, maybe not
make-believe). But there went innocent, child -
like, there went one piece bathing suits. In came
adolescence, even though I'd had my period
since I was 10. In came self-consciousness,
waiting for breasts. In came attitude, and "Why
can't I?" "You said!" "I hate you" under my breath.
In came diaries with hidden messages and dares
I always took. In came kissing and not kissing,
and doing it, and not doing it, and rounding bases,
and not rounding bases, and rounding bases having
nothing at all to do with baseball, and sometimes wishing
you could just play baseball instead.

In came. Rebellion. Cliches. Are you kidding? Drinking.
Do-overs. Cheer-leading Uniforms. Regret. Pure Bliss.
Uncovering. Not feeling good enough. Cockiness. Joy.
In came wild cards. Short skirts. Cocktails. 15. Funnels.
Mid-riff baring. Belly-button rings. Challenges. Being
challenging. The ultimate change. The ultimate fast-forward.
In came growing up.

Ellen Hagan, copyright by author

from "The Cure at Troy"

Human beings suffer.
They torture one another.
They get hurt and get hard.

History says, Don't hope
On this side of the grave,
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that a farther shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles
And cures and healing wells.

Seamus Heaney, The Cure at Troy (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1991)