Poems that I love

Julia Wilson Carroll a poem for my aunt by Ken Ireland I sit by the phone and wait for word that she has died, ready to cry. But the news is still the same: she is resting comfortably. If she has lucid moment, yes, I will tell her that her nephew from California loves her. When we last spoke I was 10. If that is how she remembers me, I will not complain or correct. She only complains that the fall had blurred her eyes. She could no longer call the pitch strike or ball. Keep you eye on the ball, you are the best aunt in the world. My last words. It was just a spill that an ordinary person could have walked off, but it shattered her back and pelvis. Unable to speak, she pointed to the legal paper she had prepared. The priest was called. He forgave, prayed and left. An intern hauled out the tubes while my father stood expecting her last breath. 15 days later, nurses and doctors admire the body’s desire to surviv

by John Donne S TAND still, and I will read to thee A lecture, Love, in Love's philosophy. These three hours that we have spent, Walking here, two shadows went Along with us, which we ourselves produced. But, now the sun is just above our head, We do those shadows tread, And to brave clearness all things are reduced. So whilst our infant loves did grow, Disguises did, and shadows, flow From us and our cares ; but now 'tis not so. That love hath not attain'd the highest degree, Which is still diligent lest others see. Except our loves at this noon stay, We shall new shadows make the other way. As the first were made to blind Others, these which come behind Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes. If our loves faint, and westerwardly decline, To me thou, falsely, thine And I to thee mine actions shall disguise. The morning shadows wear away, But these grow longer all the day ; But O ! love's day is short, if love decay. Love is a growing, or full constant ligh

by Donald Hall When you fall in love you jockey the horse into the flaming barn. You hire a cabin on the shiny Titanic. You tease the black bear. Reading the Monitor you scan the obituaries looking for your name.

by Walt Whitman (Excerpt from the 1855 edition) Trippers and askers surround me, People I meet….the effect upon me of my early life….of the ward and city I live in….of the nation, The latest news….discoveries, inventions, societies….authors old and new, My dinner, dress, associates, looks, business, compliments, dues, The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love, The sickness of one of my folks­-or of myself….or ill-doing….or loss or lack of money….or depressions or exaltations, These come to me days and nights and go from me again, But they are not the Me myself. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looks with its sidecurved head, curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering want wondering at it. …………………………………………………………………………. I believe in you my s

by Jack Gilbert How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would finally explain why the couples on their tombs are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated, they seemed to be business records. But what if they are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper, as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor. Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts of lon

657 I dwell in Possibility— A fairer House than Prose— More numerous of Windows— Superior—for Doors— Of Chambers as the Cedars— Impregnable of Eye— And for an Everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky— Of Visitors—the fairest— For Occupation—This— The spreading wide of narrow Hands To gather Paradise—

by Mary Oliver As I was searching for poems for a memorial service, I looked through some poems by Mary Oliver, a woman I usually take to be a Buddhist poet though I have no evidence other than the way her words land in my heart, and found this gem which I want to share. Sweet Jesus, talking his melancholy madness, stood up in the boat and the sea lay down, silky and sorry. So everybody was saved that night. But you know how it is when something different crosses the threshold—the uncles mutter together, the women walk away, the young brother begins to sharpen his knife. Nobody knows what the soul is. It comes and goes like the wind over the water— sometimes, for days, you don’t think of it. Maybe after the sermon, after the multitude was fed, one or two of them felt the soul slip forth like a tremor of pure sunlight, before exhaustion, that wants to swallow everything, gripped their bones and left them miserable and sleepy, as they are now, for