Flare

By Mary Oliver

1.

Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.

It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;

it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;

it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,

or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;

it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
that are shaking in the wind.

2.

You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your
great-grandfather's farm, a place you visited once,
and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and
talked in the house.
It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor,
and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was
a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing
a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild,
binocular eyes.
Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of
animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air,
a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.
Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high
up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.
You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner,
on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed
empty, but wasn't.
Then--you still remember--you felt the rap of hunger--it was
noon--and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back
to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you
on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.

3.

Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,
now.

I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.

4.

Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.

Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.

Not in this world.

5.

My mother
was the blue wisteria,
my mother
was the mossy stream out behind the house,
my mother, alas, alas,
did not always love her life,
heavier than iron it was
as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,
oh, unforgettable!

I bury her
in a box
in the earth
and turn away.
My father
was a demon of frustrated dreams,
was a breaker of trust,
was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.
He followed God, there being no one else
he could talk to;
he swaggered before God, there being no one else
who would listen.
Listen,
this was his life.
I bury it in the earth.
I sweep the closets.
I leave the house.

6.

I mention them now,
I will not mention them again.

It is not lack of love
nor lack of sorrow.
But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.

I give them--one, two, three, four--the kiss of courtesy,
of sweet thanks,
of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.
May they sleep well. May they soften.

But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
I will not give them the responsibility for my life.

7.

Did you know that the ant has a tongue
with which to gather in all that it can
of sweetness?

Did you know that?

8.

The poem is not the world.
It isn't even the first page of the world.

But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.

It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.

9.

The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the
grown woman
is a misery and a disappointment.
The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded,
muscular man
is a misery, and a terror.

10.

Therefore, tell me:
what will engage you?
What will open the dark fields of your mind,
like a lover
at first touching?

11.

Anyway,
there was no barn.
No child in the barn.

No uncle no table no kitchen.

Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.

12.

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.

Comments : A friend recently gave me an anthology of the best American Poetry from 1999. Idly flicking through the pages, the line ‘Welcome to the silly, comforting poem’ leapt out at me – I had to follow to the next line and then the next to check whether the first was meant to be self-deprecatory, sarcastic or plain statement of fact.
Thoroughly enjoyed the images of nature ‘ the red rinse flaring out of the sky, the feisty moth flaring one last time as he burns in the flame, of the mother bearing the burden of a life heavier than iron.
Loved the imagery of a poem as a flower and as something cool and refreshing. This part of the poem reminded me of ‘Ars Poetica’
- Zen.

About the poet : A celebrated American poet, she won the Pulitzer in '84. Her book, 'New and Selected Poems', earned her the National Book Award for poetry. Her most quoted poem is 'Wild Geese'. Love her descriptions of nature and the natural world - ‘Peonies’ and ‘Summer’ are very close being a series of haiku.

I love my dog

By Cat Stevens

I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.

All he asks from me is the food to give him strength
All he ever needs is love and that he knows he'll get

So, I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.

All the pay I need comes shining through his eyes
I don't need no cold water to make me realize that

I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.

Na, na, na, na, na, na, nana...

I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.

Na, na, na, na, na, na, nana...

I love my dog, baby, I love my dog. na, na, na...
I love my dog, baby, I love my dog. na, na, na

Comments : since we are on dogs. Here's one reason dogs are preferable to the opposite sex - Anonymous

Sam's Ghazals

By Elise Paschen

You’re out. The house is dead. With me:
You’re safe. Why not stay home, instead, with me ?

That Ur prince whisked you off past four.
At my leash-end, you’re not misled by me.

He’s like a tide. He comes. He goes.
I’m always here. Life’s anchored with me.

My needs are few: a bowl, a lead, some love.
You won’t get in the red with me.

You never have to cook, just pop a Mighty Dog:
a snap to have breakfasted with me.

He paws, he yaps, he barely listens.
I’m all ears. Much is left unsaid with me.

Maybe I have my quirks (stairs scare, streets clank),
But you’ve always kept your head with me.

He is six foot one. I am one foot high.
Don’t ever let him tread on me.

Though small, I claim my space and like you snug.
(It’s tough sharing a bed with me.)

My name is Samson. Yours is Paschen.
So keep your name and stay unwed with me.

- Sam

Comments : And after last week’s poem from a she-dog to her master, here is one from a he-dog to his mistress. I love the reasons given by the dog to convince his mistress that he is better than a human boyfriend.
Notice the brilliant contrast the dog brings out in
‘He’s like a tide. He comes. He goes.
I’m always here. Life’s anchored with me.’
Also,
‘He paws, he yaps, he barely listens.
I’m all ears. Much is left unsaid with me.’
:-) Awesome, isn’t it ?
- Zen

Doggerel

By Abigail Thomas

I’m quintessential female
I have a jealous heart
and that last girl he brought up here
was nothing but a tart

she ate up all his ice-cream
she drank up all his schnapps
and then she made a noisy fuss
when I climbed on their laps

he took me off the sofa
he put me in the chair
she said,”My god, your furniture
is nothing but dog - hair”

(my master is an idiot
how freely I admit it
he used to have a thinking – cap
but someone must have hid it)

she laughed at all his silly jokes
(which most girls find a chore)
and then she took off all her clothes
and dropped them on the floor

it’s not that I’m small-minded
he’s had some other lovers
but this one didn’t understand
I sleep under the covers

I don’t like to be pushed around
I do not care for scowls
she told him that I snapped at her
when all I did was growl

I’m certainly no prude
(I’d prove it if he’d let me)
but I saw no reason why she shouldn’t
rue the day she met me

her clothes I chewed to pieces
her silly boots I bit up
some of this mess I swallowed
but most of it I spit up

“how could you keep a dog like him?”
she cried,”this filthy cur?”
my master looked at me and smiled,
“No, not a him, a her.”
- Suzy

Comments : I found this poem about a possessive pet dog quite cute. Rather true to human emotions too, but being expressed by a dog with rhyme and metre makes it adorable. It's from a book titled 'Unleashed. Poems by Writers Dogs'.
- Zen

Everybody Knows

By Leonard Cohen

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows that the war is over
Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
That’s how it goes
Everybody knows

Everybody knows that the boat is leaking
Everybody knows that the captain lied
Everybody got this broken feeling
Like their father or their dog just died

Everybody talking to their pockets
Everybody wants a box of chocolates
And a long stem rose
Everybody knows

Everybody knows that you love me baby
Everybody knows that you really do
Everybody knows that you’ve been faithful
Ah give or take a night or two
Everybody knows you’ve been discreet
But there were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes
And everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That’s how it goes
Everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That’s how it goes
Everybody knows

And everybody knows that it’s now or never
Everybody knows that it’s me or you
And everybody knows that you live forever
Ah when you’ve done a line or two
Everybody knows the deal is rotten
Old black joes still pickin’ cotton
For your ribbons and bows
And everybody knows

And everybody knows that the plague is coming
Everybody knows that its moving fast
Everybody knows that the naked man and woman
Are just a shining artifact of the past
Everybody knows the scene is dead
But there’s gonna be a meter on your bed
That will disclose
What everybody knows

And everybody knows that you’re in trouble
Everybody knows what you’ve been through
From the bloody cross on top of calvary
To the beach of malibu
Everybody knows it’s coming apart
Take one last look at this sacred heart
Before it blows
And everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That’s how it goes
Everybody knows

Oh everybody knows, everybody knows
That’s how it goes
Everybody knows

Comments : This is the first Leonard Cohen song I heard years ago and it still remains one of my favourite Cohen songs / poems. The cynicism, the sardonic wit, the imagery – all are just amazing. While I cannot read /hear too many Cohen song-poems at a stretch, I think they are just the thing in ones and twos when one is in the right mood to appreciate them. Cohen’s poetry puts words to stark despair and disillusionment – looking into the dark crater and back again – like no one else can. - Zen

Links to information about Leonard Cohen :
Wikipedia, of course. Interestingly, Wikipedia reveals that he underwent five years of seclusion at a Buddhist centre and has been ordained as a Buddhist monk.

This article discloses that Cohen's maternal grandfather was a rabbi who wrote a 700-page thesaurus of Talmudic interpretations. Now we know exactly where the understanding for the poem ‘Who, By Fire’ comes from. The same article also discloses that Cohen has been labelled "the poet laureate of pessimism", "the grocer of despair", "the godfather of gloom" and "the prince of bummers", in addition to 68 other facts about him.

And this is where all the information about Cohen is to be found.

Links to more poems by Leonard Cohen : http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/624.html
http://www.lyricsfreak.com/l/leonard+cohen/bird+on+the+wire_20082816.html
(Who could but love these lines – ‘Like a bird on a wire/ Like a drunk in a midnight choir/ I have tried, in my way, to be free’)
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/744.html
http://www.lyricsfreak.com/l/leonard+cohen/im+your+man_20082812.html
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/744.html
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/339.html

Learning to Live with Islam

(This post is reprinted from this blog, with due permission of course.)

The veil is not the same as the suicide belt. We can better pursue our values if we recognize the local and cultural context, and appreciate that people want to find their own balance between freedom and order, liberty and license.
--- Fareed Zakaria. Learning to Live With Radical Islam. Newsweek: February 28, 2009.

Sharia demands death for the adulteress
I am not an adulteress
I can learn to live with Sharia.

Sharia demands death for the gays
I am not a gay
I can learn to live with Sharia.

Sharia demands death for the blasphemer
I am not a blasphemer
I can learn to live with Sharia.

Sharia demands death for the apostate
I am not a Muslim
I can learn to live with Sharia.

Islam demands Sharia for everyone
I am no one
I learned to live with Islam.

An adaptation of "First they came...", a poem attributed to Pastor Martin Niemöller (1892–1984).
By, The Rational Fool

Comments : One of the reasons I like Desipundit is that it regularly introduces me to posts such as this. Something about the poem grabbed my attention when I read it. The wikipedia entry on Pastor Martin Niemoller and his poem was rivetting too. Am copying below the 1976 version of his poem.
- Zen

First They Came (1976 version)

When the Nazis came for the communists,
I remained silent;
I was not a communist.

When they locked up the social democrats,
I remained silent;
I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists,
I did not speak out;
I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews,
I remained silent;
I was not a Jew.

When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.

French Horn

By Jane Hirshfield


For a few days only,

the plum tree outside the window

shoulders perfection.

No matter the plums will be small,

eaten only by squirrels and jays.

I feast on the one thing, they on another,

the shoaling bees on a third.

What in this unpleated world isn't someone's seduction?


The boy playing his intricate horn in Mahler's Fifth,

in the gaps between playing,

turns it and turns it, dismantles a section,

shakes from it the condensation

of human passage. He is perhaps twenty.



Later he takes his four bows, his face deepening red,

while a girl holds a viola's spruce wood and maple

in one half-opened hand and looks at him hard.

Let others clap.

These two, their ears still ringing, hear nothing.

Not the shouts of bravo, bravo,

not the timpanic clamor inside their bodies.

As the plum's blossoms do not hear the bee

nor taste themselves turned into storable honey

by that sumptuous disturbance.


Comments : A friend forwarded this poem to me a few days ago and I knew I would post in on the blog over the weekend. The beginning of the poem grabbed me and drew me in - 'for a few days only, the plum tree outside the window shoulders perfection'. Lovely image !
For more poems by Jane Hirshfield, check this.
Zen