Poems that I love

by Hafiz Once a young woman asked me, “How does it feel to be a man?” And I replied, “My dear, I am not so sure.” Then she said. “Well aren’t you a man?” And this time I replied, “I view gender as a beautiful animal That people often take for a walk on a leash, And might enter in some odd contest To try to win strange prizes. My dear, A better question for Hafiz Would have been, ‘How does it feel to be a Heart?’ For all I know is love, And I find my heart Infinite And everywhere!”

A point of view from The Way of Chuang Tzu via Thomas Merton: Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu Were crossing Hao river By the dam. Chuang said: "See how free The fishes leap and dart: That is their happiness." Hui replied: "Since you are not a fish How do you know What makes fishes happy?" Chuang said: " Since you are not I How can you possibly know That I do not know What makes fishes happy?" Hui argued: "If I, not being you, Cannot know what you know It follows that you Not being a fish cannot know what they know." Chuang said: "Wait a minute! Let us get back To the original question. What you asked me was ' How do you know What makes fishes happy?' From the terms of your question You evidently know I know What makes fishes happy. "I know the joy of fishes In the river Through my own joy, as I go walking Along the same river."

by Lisel Mueller Doctor, you say that there are no haloes around the streetlights in Paris and what I see is an aberration caused by old age, an affliction. I tell you it has taken me all my life to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels, to soften and blur and finally banish the edges you regret I don't see, to learn that the line I called the horizon does not exist and sky and water, so long apart, are the same state of being. Fifty-four years before I could see Rouen cathedral is built of parallel shafts of sun, and now you want to restore my youthful errors: fixed notions of top and bottom, the illusion of three-dimensional space, wisteria separate from the bridge it covers. What can I say to convince you the Houses of Parliament dissolve night after night to become the fluid dream of the Thames? I will not return to a universe of objects that don't know each other, as if islands were not the lost children of o

by G. M. Hopkins My window shews the travelling clouds, Leaves spent, new seasons, alter'd sky, The making and the melting crowds: The whole world passes; I stand by. They do not waste their meted hours, But men and masters plan and build: I see the crowning of their towers, And happy promises fulfill'd. And I - perhaps if my intent Could count on prediluvian age, The labours I should then have spent Might so attain their heritage, But now before the pot can glow With not to be discover'd gold, At length the bellows shall not blow, The furnace shall at last be cold. Yet it is now too late to heal The incapable and cumbrous shame Which makes me when with men I deal More powerless than the blind or lame. No, I should love the city less Even than this my thankless lore; But I desire the wilderness Or weeded landslips of the shore. I walk my breezy belvedere To watch the low or levant sun, I see the city pigeons veer, I mark the tower swall

by Wallace Stevens It was when I said, “There’s no such thing as the truth,” That the grapes seemed fatter. The fox ran out of his hole. You… You said, “There are many truths, But they are not parts of a truth.” Then the tree, at night, began to change, Smoking through green and smoking blue. We were two figures in a wood. We said we stood alone. It was when I said, “Words are not forms of a single word, In the sum of the parts, there are only the parts. The world must be measured by eye.” It was when you said, “The idols have seen lots of poverty, Snakes and gold and lice, But not the truth”; It was at that time, that the silence was largest And longest, the night was roundest, The fragrance of the autumn warmest, Closest and strongest.

by Mary Oliver I have seen the great feet leaping into the river and I have seen moonlight milky along the long muzzle and I have seen the body of something scaled and wonderful slumped in the sudden fire of its mouth, and I could not tell which fit me more comfortably, the power, or the powerlessness; neither would have me entirely; I was divided, consumed, by sympathy, pity, admiration. After a while it was done, the fish had vanished, the bear lumped away to the green shore and into the trees. And then there was only this story. It followed me home and entered my house— a difficult guest with a single tune which it hums all day and through the night— slowly or briskly, it doesn’t matter, it sounds like a river leaping and falling it sounds like a body falling apart. If you want to read more of Mary Oliver’s poems, here are some that I like.

by Mary Oliver “Make of yourself a light” said the Buddha, before he died. I think of this every morning as the east begins to tear off its many clouds of darkness, to send up the first signal-a white fan streaked with pink and violet, even green. An old man, he lay down between two sala trees, and he might have said anything, knowing it was his final hour. The light burns upward, it thickens and settles over the fields. Around him, the villagers gathered and stretched forward to listen. Even before the sun itself hangs, disattached, in the blue air, I am touched everywhere by its ocean of yellow waves. No doubt he thought of everything that had happened in his difficult life. And then I feel the sun itself as it blazes over the hills, like a million flowers on fire- clearly I’m not needed, yet I feel myself turning into something of inexplicable value. Slowly, beneath the branches, he raised his head. He looked into the faces of that frightened crow