Happy Solstice, everyone. In the Northern Hemisphere, we’re in for the longest night of the year. Last week, I shared a poem about light. To honor this mysterious, magical time of year, today’s post includes four more favorite poems, one for each season. Enjoy!
Next week, I’m thrilled to be sharing my short story for
’s community writing project “Same Walk, Different Shoes”—organized as a practical exercise in empathy. Subscribe so you don’t miss it.Stone Go inside a stone That would be my way. Let somebody else become a dove Or gnash with a tiger’s tooth. I am happy to be a stone. From the outside the stone is a riddle: No one knows how to answer it. Yet within, it must be cool and quiet Even though a cow steps on it full weight, Even though a child throws it in a river; The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed To the river bottom Where the fishes come to knock on it And listen. I have seen sparks fly out When two stones are rubbed, So perhaps it is not dark inside after all; Perhaps there is a moon shining From somewhere, as though behind a hill— Just enough light to make out The strange writings, the star-charts On the inner walls. ~ Charles Simic, from What the Grass Says (Harcourt Inc., 1967)
Perhaps the World Ends Here The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite. ~ Joy Harjo, from The Woman Who Fell From the Sky (W. W. Norton and Company Inc., 1994)
Read by poet Gregory Orr, animated by On Being
Untitled This is what was bequeathed us: This earth the beloved left And, leaving, Left to us. No other world But this one: Willows and the river And the factory With its black smokestacks. No other shore, only this bank On which the living gather. No meaning but what we find here. No purpose but what we make. That, and the beloved’s clear instructions: Turn me into song; sing me awake. ~ Gregory Orr, from How Beautiful the Beloved (© 2009)
The Facts of Life That you were born and you will die. That you will sometimes love enough and sometimes not. That you will lie if only to yourself. That you will get tired. That you will learn most from the situations you did not choose. That there will be some things that move you more than you can say. That you will live that you must be loved. That you will avoid questions most urgently in need of your attention. That you began as the fusion of a sperm and an egg of two people who once were strangers and may well still be. That life isn’t fair. That life is sometimes good and sometimes even better than good. That life is often not so good. That life is real and if you can survive it, well, survive it well with love and art and meaning given where meaning’s scarce. That you will learn to live with regret. That you will learn to live with respect. That the structures that constrict you may not be permanently constricting. That you will probably be okay. That you must accept change before you die but you will die anyway. So you might as well live and you might as well love. You might as well love. You might as well love. ~ Pádraig Ó Tuama, from Sorry For Your Troubles (Canterbury Press, 2018)
Please share your favorite poem in the comments. Peace and light to you.
The poem Stone is a new favorite! Happy Solstice, Julie!
Thank you Julie. I am a fan of Joy Harjo so appreciated reading one of hers I haven't seen. I love the poem Stone, also new to me.