Poems that I love

by Denise Levertov Days pass when I forget the mystery. Problems insoluble and problems offering their own ignored solutions jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing their colored clothes, cap and bells. And then once more the quiet mystery is present to me, the throng’s clamor recedes: the mystery that there is anything, anything at all, let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything, rather than void: and that, O Lord, Creator, Hallowed One, You still, hour by hour sustain it. from Sands of the Well (1996)

by Sophie Katz She wrote this poem in memory of her mother, Chaya Esther Perelman, who died on Novemb er 22, 19 47. When Sophie died on June 10, 2007, Joel Katz, found among her papers a famous Japanese wood block of Nicherin claming the seas on his way into exile. Yes, as the sutra says, being born of a good mother helps a son find the dharma, My mother died. We opened up her bedside table Just before the auction. Pills For migraine, cough drops, a dusty comb, Old pens that didn't work. Scraps of cloth from old dresses, A dozen paperbacks, high sounding titles On poetry, metaphysics, But mostly never read. And papers Hundreds of papers Like leaves in an autumn storm, and just as ragged. Old bills with lines of poetry -- Her disembodied souls come into being With no before or after. Ten-cent notebooks The home of daring thoughts on women's needs Before Friedan or Greer. Health diary of the children, and in the back, A list of topics that would someday m

by Adam Zagajewski In June once, in the evening, returning from a long trip, with memories of France's blooming trees still fresh in our minds, its yellow fields, green plane trees sprinting before the car, we sat on the curb at the cathedral's foot and spoke softly about disasters, about what lay ahead, the coming fear, and someone said this was the best we could do now- to talk of darkness in that bright shadow. Translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh [1.5.09. Today I am entirely sure that I love this poem. I could not get it out of my mind, when I returned to the 'real' world after 7 days of intensive meditation retreat in June of '07].

by Samih al-Qasim The day I'm killed my killer will find tickets in my pockets: One to peace, one to fields and the rain, and one to humanity's conscience. I beg you--please don't waste them. I beg you, you who kill me: Go.

by Samih al-Qasim From the narrow window of my small cell, I see trees that are smiling at me and rooftops crowded with my family. And windows weeping and praying for me. From the narrow window of my small cell-- I can see your big cell!

by Aharon Shabtai Two days ago in Rafi'ah, nine Arabs were killed, yesterday six were killed in Hebron, and today -- just two. Last year as we were marching from Shenkin Street, a man on a motorcycle shouted toward us: "Death to the Arabs!" You can read interviews with three Israeli poets on The News Hour's website .

by Agi Mishol (taken from a segment on "The News Hour" on PBS ) You are only twenty and your first pregnancy is a bomb. Under your broad skirt you are pregnant with dynamite and metal shavings. This is how you walk in the market, ticking among the people, you, Andaleeb Takatka. Someone loosened the screws in your head and launched you toward the city; even though you come from Bethlehem, the House of Bread, you chose a bakery. And there you pulled the trigger out of yourself, and together with the Sabbath loaves, sesame and poppy seed, you flung yourself into the sky.