A poem - a prayer

I needed to get something from my car today and decided to go out without a coat since I was parked fairly near to the building. People told me I would freeze but I thought a jaunt into the cold would be bracing. It was a little disappointing when I got out there to find that it is 55 degrees at the moment.

Still, the experience I had anticipated having made me think of a poem - A Prayer by Sara Teasdale. It seems a good sentiment for the end of this year, and is likely to be a little more applicable since the temperatures are supposed to drop significantly over the next few days.

A Prayer

When I am dying, let me know
That I loved the blowing snow
Although it stung like whips;
That I loved all lovely things
And I tried to take their stings
With gay unembittered lips;
That I loved with all my strength,
To my soul's full depth and length,
Careless if my heart must break,
That I sang as children sing
Fitting tunes to everything,
Loving life for its own sake.

A poem for a spectacular day

This is such a beautiful day, warm and clear. I have posted an assortment of sad poems here so today I thought I'd include one that's a little more upbeat. Here's, "Loveliest of Trees" by A.E. Houseman. It's one of those poems that turns up in all the collections of favorite, best-loved poems. Some might consider it a little sappy but It's ideal for today.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Here's a picture of the cherry trees outside the parking garage where I work. I took it a few days ago. They have faded already but were striking at the time.

A sad but hopeful poem for a grey day

This morning was grey and foggy. At the same time, many trees have begun to bloom - mostly white and pink. They make a beautiful impression against the light purple sky. This day had "stay in bed" written all over it. If I were home I would probably already be taking a nap with the windows open, feeling the breeze and waiting for the rain that is expected later in the day.

This morning I remembered a poem that I hadn't thought about in quite some time. It is a somber but hopeful one, perfect for this sort of day. It's another one by Christina Rossetti and has brought me great comfort in the past. I'm including it as part of my poem-a-week plan for National Poetry Month.

REST

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;
    Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;
    Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.
She hath no questions, she hath no replies,
    Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth
    Of all that irked her from the hour of birth;
With stillness that is almost Paradise.
Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her,
    Silence more musical than any song;
Even her very heart has ceased to stir:
Until the morning of Eternity
Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be;
    And when she wakes she will not think it long.

And with joy the stars perform their shining

I realized this morning that it is National Poetry Month. I've posted a lot of poems here already. Usually they have had to do with what was going on at the moment. For April, I'm going to try to post one each week that may or may not tie in.

This week's selection is "Self-Dependence" by Matthew Arnold. It's a wonderful poem. I can't remember where I first saw it. The title of this post comes from it. Read on.

Self-Dependence

Weary of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire
O'er the sea and to the stars I send:
"Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me,
Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters,
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,
Over the lit sea's unquiet way,
In the rustling night-air came the answer
"Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

"And with joy the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul.

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God's other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see."

O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:
"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he,
Who finds himself, loses his misery!"


I verified this text through Project Gutenberg. If you have never used it, you should give it a try. It is a magnificent source of free e-text versions of public domain works.

Easter canoe trip

I have spent the Easter weekend on a canoe/kayak trip with family and friends in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. It was a wonderful time. Good river trips, good food, and beautiful, clear weather. It was cold at night, though. The thermometer read 26 degrees this morning. I am taking a moment to post this as we pack to leave.

Maybe because it's Easter, an old Longfellow poem came back to me. It's called "My Cathedral" and has always been a favorite of mine. I memorized it many years ago. I'll include it below - and will fix any errors when I get home.

My Cathedral

Like two cathedral towers these stately pines
Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;
The arch beneath them is not built with stones,
Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,
And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;
No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,
No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones.
No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.
Enter! The pavement carpeted with leaves,
Gives back the softened echo of thy tread!
Listen! The choir is singing; All the birds
In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,
Are singing. Listen, ere the sound be fled,
And learn there may be worship without words.

(P.S. Checking the poem, I found I had all the words right but missed some of the punctuation. Not too bad.)

Returning to what has sustained me

I have been having to deal with a lot of interpersonal issues lately. Some have been difficult. When I got home tonight I read through the Prayer of St. Francies. A copy of it hangs on the plaque in my room. It offers a lot of guidance. Here it is,

Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master, grant that I may not seek so much to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Amen.

This contains so mush wisdom and I think anyone who can remember to live by it will both be happy and help others to be happy. St. Francis probably doesn't need any editorial suggestions from me. But if I had one thing to add to this prayer, I would add a line that says, "Where there is difference, let me sow tolerance." It is very easy work so hard to win on an issue that you can lose track of what is being given up to do it or the pain that is being caused to others on the way.

I'm putting this post in the poetry category even though that's not entirely accurate. The prayer of St. Francis is poetry to me, though, because it gives me what I seek in poetry - beauty and inspiration.

Only by being already at home here

It's Ash Wednesday. They really got me with those ashes this morning, too. I got the zealous lay minister. They tend to be very enthusiastic in their duties.

There is a poem by Stevie Smith with the title "God Speaks". In it, she makes a point about how people are eager to get to heaven but seem to miss the point a lot. I think it's still under copyright or I'd post it here. The last line is quotable, though, and sums it up fairly well. It is, "But he cannot come by wishing. Only by being already at home here." That seems to be a goal worth working toward.

I've made an assortment of vows for Lent. They all center about trying to be a generally better and kinder person. I won't list them all here. One simple one will prove to be the most useful, I think. I'm going to take a little time each evening to review how well I did that day. I should learn from that.

Today marks three months since I had my surgery. It seems so much longer ago than that.

Some flowers

I bought roses for myself yesterday. A bit of a pick-me-up after a challenging but generally successful week. I was going to buy hyacinths because they smelled so good in the store but went for the roses instead. The flowers reminded me of a poem I read many years ago. Buying yourself flowers is worth it sometimes.

Here's a picture of the roses and a copy of the poem. The wording varies depending on who translated it but this seems to be the most popular version.


If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store
Two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole,
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.

~ Musharish-Ud-Din Sadi

How the illness has changed me

As I was scrambling to get ready for work this morning I was thinking about how this illness has changed me. I'm a little disappointed to say that the true answer is 'not much.' Thinking back over the last few weeks, I don't feel that I've been more thoughtful, more kind, more careful to spend my time on the most important things, or any of the other qualities that I had assured myself I would develop. I had heard that it's typical for people in this sort of situation to vow to become the best possible person and then let that vow slip as time passes. Still, I had hoped it wouldn't be true of me.

Some of this, I think, is the result of the holidays coming right after I finished the most intense surgery recovery period and then that killer cold coming on just as the holidays wrapped up. I haven't really devoted any energy to this. I am setting myself a goal of next weekend. Due to the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday, it will be a three day weekend and I'm signing it over to devote some time to introspection. It will also be a good time to move ahead. A good time to finally sign off on the year that passed and begin to look forward.

Anticipating a quiet day or two after the drama and hubub of the last few months, I'm reminded of yet another poem. This one is "Weariness" by Sara Teasdale...


Weariness

Oh let me be alone, far from the eyes and faces,
Let me be alone, awhile, even from you;
My soul is like a desert, sick of light-filled spaces,
The urge of useless winds, the sky of pitiless blue;
Let me be alone, awhile, in twilit places,
Waiting the merciful night, the stately stars and the dew.


The other evening as I was leaving work, the sky was that rich, deepest blue that happens on a clear day just after the sun has set and the sunset colors have faced. That was when this poem popped back into my head. I took a picture from the parking garage at work with my phone camera. It doesn't really do that moment justice but I'll include it here anyway.

(as always, click the picture for a larger version)

Two poems by Whitman

Michael and Eric and I were discussing Whitman last night over dinner. (Wasn't that a great opening sentence? It's rare to get a chance to sound so much like a snooty literary type.) Two poems from Leaves of Grass came to my mind that I had read a long time ago. At one time I had been working to memorize poems. It's handy at times and is a good concentration exercise. Here are the two. I looked them up because I didn't trust myself to remember them accurately.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.


When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer

When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

A couple of quotes for Christmas

Christmas is approaching at a breakneck pace. I've been doing my best to get ready and I'm not doing such a hot job of it. As always when I need a booster shot of holiday spirit, I re-read A Christmas Carol by Dickens. It has one of my favorite passages about the holiday. I also love the carol It Came Upon the Midnight Clear. The third and fourth verses - which nobody ever sings - are my favorites. Those two items usually do the trick for me. Here they are...


From A Christmas Carol...

"There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say," returned the nephew. "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round--apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

From It Came Upon the Midnight Clear...

O ye beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow;
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
Oh rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.

For lo! the days are hastening on,
By prophets seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years
Shall come the time foretold,
When the new heaven and earth shall own
The Prince of Peace, their King,
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing.

(By the way, you can read or download full text versions of A Christmas Carol from Project Gutenberg, one of the coolest sites on the web, if you ask me.)

A positive attitude and two poems about hills

They say that having a positive attitude is important when dealing with this sort of thing. I'm generally fairly good at that. I can tell that it's important for the people around me as well so I'm making an effort to be as positive about this as possible. Some times are more challenging than others. I suppose that's typical.

I was talking yesterday with a friend who has had something similar. We agreed that even the potential for scary news causes you to look at everything with more appreciation and perspective. That is certainly true.

All of this made me think about two poems with similar themes but very different attitudes. I'll include them below. The first is Up-Hill by Christina Rossetti. I learned this one years ago from my friend Kay who recited it from memory. It has a resolute and positive tone. The other is The Long Hill by Sara Teasdale and carries a feeling of fatigue and capitulation. I learned of Sara Teasdale when my friend Nancy recited her poem Wisdom to me from memory. I think I'm doing a good job of it so far but I'm going to work to keep on the Rossetti side of things and keep those Teasdale times to a minimum.

Up-Hill

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
        Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
        From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
        A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
        You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
        Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when 'ust in sight?
        They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
        Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
        Yea, beds for all who come.

- Christina Rossetti

The Long Hill

I must have passed the crest a while ago
And now I am going down--
Strange to have crossed the crest and not to know,
But the brambles were always catching the hem of my gown.

All the morning I thought how proud I should be
To stand there straight as a queen,
Wrapped in the wind and the sun with the world under me--
But the air was dull, there was little I could have seen.

It was nearly level along the beaten track
And the brambles caught in my gown--
But it's no use now to think of turning back,
The rest of the way will be only going down.

- Sara Teasdale

Poem - Indian Summer by Sara Teasdale

This evening I drove home by way of the back roads. I had been up early this morning to watch the lunar eclipse. Several things came up and I was later than usual leaving work. Several times on the drive home I came upon
spots that had that typical look of early autumn - green leaves, yellowing fields, and light at a sharper angle than you see in mid-summer. It was so beautiful. It reminded me, out of the blue, of a poem by Sara Teasdale. Indian Summer. I love this poem - particularly those last two lines. They create such a compelling image. And here it is for you to read:

Indian Summer

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer
Shadowy fields that are senseless but full of singing.
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.

The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples
the wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn and broken,
Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heartless.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction
While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.

- Sara Teasdale - from Rivers to the Sea