When the world isn’t making sense, poetry suddenly does, even to people who normally don’t read it. The music of the language, the focus on an image, the surrender to the play of the mind provide a comfort to the psyche under duress. These poems are here for you. They do not ask you to analyze them or explain them. They are moments of attention to life. With thanks to the Academy of American Poets and Poetry Foundation for their gatherings of poems, we offer these in hopes they provide a breath at a time of breathlessness. As our team understands, physicians are sharing poetry on the listserves, and we hope these contribute to that beautiful engagement. “Poetry heals the wounds of reason,” says Novalis. “Poetry is the imagination striking up against reality,” says Stephen Spender. “I know I have read a good poem when I feel the top of my head lifting off,” says Emily Dickinson. Whatever it is, we hope these poems bring you a little bit of what you need right now.

May 17, 2020

This is the Time to Be Slow

John O’Donohue

This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter weather passes.

Try, as best you can, not to let
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart
All sense of yourself
And your hesitant light.

If you remain generous,
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on fresh pastures of promise,
Where the air will be kind
And blushed with beginning.

May 9, 2020

Think of Others

Mahmoud Darwish

As you prepare your breakfast, think of others
       (do not forget the pigeon’s food).
As you conduct your wars, think of others
       (do not forget those who seek peace).
As you pay your water bill, think of others
      (those who are nursed by clouds).
As you return home, to your home, think of others
       (do not forget the people of the camps).
As you sleep and count the stars, think of others
       (those who have nowhere to sleep).
As you liberate yourself in metaphor, think of others
       (those who have lost the right to speak).
As you think of others far away, think of yourself
       (say: “If only I were a candle in the dark”).

May 9, 2020

A Blessing

BY JAMES WRIGHT

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness   
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.   
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.   
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me   
And nuzzled my left hand.   
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

May 6, 2020

From a pamphlet titled “Words of Comfort” by Sr. Joan Chittister:

In the rising of the sun and in its going down,
 we remember them.
In the glowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,
 we remember them,
In the blueness of sky and in the warmth of summer,
 we remember them.
In the rustling of leaves and in the beauty of autumn,
 we remember them.
In the beginning of the year and when it ends,
 we remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart,
 we remember them.
When we have joys we yearn to share,
 we remember them.
So long as we live, they too shall live,
 for they are now a part of us, as
 we remember them.  

May 1, 2020

Peace is Every Step
by Thich Nhat Hahn

Peace is every step.
The shining red sun is my heart.
Each flower smiles with me.
How green, how fresh all that grows.
How cool the wind blows.
Peace is every step.
It turns the endless path to joy.

April 30, 2020

April 24, 2020

The Everlasting Voices
by William Butler Yeats
 
O sweet everlasting Voices be still; 
Go to the guards of the heavenly fold 
And bid them wander obeying your will 
Flame under flame, till Time be no more; 
Have you not heard that our hearts are old, 
That you call in birds, in wind on the hill, 
In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore? 
O sweet everlasting Voices be still. 
Patience of Ordinary Things
by Pat Schneider

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottom of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

(From Another River: New And Selected Poems)

April 20, 2020

Start Close In

by David Whyte 

Start close in,
don’t take the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step
you don’t want to take.

Start with
the ground
you know,
the pale ground
beneath your feet,
your own
way to begin
the conversation.

Start with your own
question,
give up on other
people’s questions,
don’t let them
smother something
simple.

To hear
another’s voice,
follow
your own voice,
wait until
that voice

becomes an
intimate
private ear
that can
really listen
to another.

Start right now
take a small step
you can call your own
don’t follow
someone else’s
heroics, be humble
and focused,
start close in,
don’t mistake
that other
for your own.

Start close in,
don’t take
the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step
you don’t want to take.

A David Whyte poem from
River Flow: New & Selected Poems

April 16, 2020

Allow
By Danna Faulds
 
There is no controlling life.
Try corralling a lightning bolt, containing a tornado. 
Dam a stream and it will create a new channel. 
Resist, and the tide will sweep you off your feet.
Allow, and grace will carry you to higher ground. 
The only safety lies in letting it all in –
the wild and the weak; fear, fantasies, failures and success.
When loss rips off the doors of the heart, or sadness veils your
vision with despair, practice becomes simply bearing the truth.
In the choice to let go of your known way of being, the whole
world is revealed to your new eyes.

Copyright © 2011 Used by permission of the author.

April 11, 2020

This is the Time be Slow

by John O’Donohue

This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter weather passes.

Try, as best you can, not to let
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart
All sense of yourself
And your hesitant light.

If you remain generous,
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on fresh pastures of promise,
Where the air will be kind
and blushed with beginning.

April 8, 2020

The Appropriate Response

by Mary Reynolds Thompson

Stock up on poetry not toilet paper,
Grace rather than guns.
Gorge on love,
Which multiplies like loaves and fishes.
Call people and talk for hours,
Fill their hearts with hope.
Hoard every sweet moment of your life
And then release each one into the world
To seed more joy.
Be stingy with nothing,
Least of all yourself.
Ensure the shelves of your heart never fall bare,
That your soul seeds new sprouts
And the wings of your imagination
Refuse containment.
May you realize what matters, who matters,
The rock that you can be,
When the world is shaking.
Stockpile only what is limitless,
And can be shared by all.

© Used by permission of the author.

April 3, 2020

Prelude – by Rainer Maria Rilke (translated by MD Herter Norton)

Whoever you are: at evening step forth

out of your room, where all is known to you;

last thing before the distance lies your house:

whoever you are.

With your eyes, which wearily

scarce from the much-worn threshold free themselves,

you lift quite slowly a black tree

and place it against the sky: slender, alone.

And you have made the world. And it is large

and like a word that yet in silence ripens.

And as your will takes in the sense of it,

tenderly your eyes let it go…

April 1, 2020

Here is Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to Common Things.”

I have a crazy,
crazy love of things.
I like pliers,
and scissors.
I love
cups,
rings,
and bowls –
not to speak, or course,
of hats.
I love
all things,
not just
the grandest,
also
the
infinite-
ly
small –
thimbles,
spurs,
plates,
and flower vases.
Oh yes,
the planet
is sublime!
It’s full of pipes
weaving
hand-held
through tobacco smoke,
and keys
and salt shakers –
everything,
I mean,
that is made
by the hand of man, every little thing:
shapely shoes,
and fabric,
and each new
bloodless birth
of gold,
eyeglasses
carpenter’s nails,
brushes,
clocks, compasses,
coins, and the so-soft
softness of chairs.
Mankind has
built
oh so many
perfect
things!
Built them of wool
and of wood,
of glass and
of rope:
remarkable
tables,
ships, and stairways.
I love
all
things,
not because they are
passionate
or sweet-smelling
but because,
I don’t know,
because
this ocean is yours,
and mine;
these buttons
and wheels
and little
forgotten
treasures,
fans upon
whose feathers
love has scattered
its blossoms
glasses, knives and
scissors –
all bear
the trace
of someone’s fingers
on their handle or surface,
the trace of a distant hand
lost
in the depths of forgetfulness.
I pause in houses,
streets and
elevators
touching things,
identifying objects
that I secretly covet;
this one because it rings,
that one because
it’s as soft
as the softness of a woman’s hip,
that one there for its deep-sea color,
and that one for its velvet feel.
O irrevocable
river
of things:
no one can say
that I loved
only
fish,
or the plants of the jungle and the field,
that I loved
only
those things that leap and climb, desire, and survive.
It’s not true:
many things conspired
to tell me the whole story.
Not only did they touch me,
or my hand touched them:
they were
so close
that they were a part
of my being,
they were so alive with me
that they lived half my life
and will die half my death.

 
 

The Puppet

Gabriel García Márquez alleged farewell poem

If for a moment God would forget that I am a rag doll and give me a scrap of life, possibly I would not say everything that I think, but I would definitely think everything that I say.

I would value things not for how much they are worth but rather for what they mean.

I would sleep little, dream more. I know that for each minute that we close our eyes we lose sixty seconds of light.

I would walk when the others loiter; I would awaken when the others sleep.

I would listen when the others speak, and how I would enjoy a good chocolate ice cream.

If God would bestow on me a scrap of life, I would dress simply, I would throw myself flat under the sun, exposing not only my body but also my soul.

My God, if I had a heart, I would write my hatred on ice and wait for the sun to come out. With a dream of Van Gogh I would paint on the stars a poem by Benedetti, and a song by Serrat would be my serenade to the moon.

With my tears I would water the roses, to feel the pain of their thorns and the incarnated kiss of their petals…My God, if I only had a scrap of life…

I wouldn’t let a single day go by without saying to people I love, that I love them.

I would convince each woman or man that they are my favourites and I would live in love with love.

I would prove to the men how mistaken they are in thinking that they no longer fall in love when they grow old–not knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love. To a child I would give wings, but I would let him learn how to fly by himself. To the old I would teach that death comes not with old age but with forgetting. I have learned so much from you men….

I have learned that everybody wants to live at the top of the mountain without realizing that true happiness lies in the way we climb the slope.

I have learned that when a newborn first squeezes his father’s finger in his tiny fist, he has caught him forever.

I have learned that a man only has the right to look down on another man when it is to help him to stand up. I have learned so many things from you, but in the end most of it will be no use because when they put me inside that suitcase, unfortunately I will be dying.

translated by Matthew Taylor and Rosa Arelis Taylor

Poem for March 27

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

 
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
 
 
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
 
 
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
 
 
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
 
 
 
 
 
Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” from The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright 1923, © 1969 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc., renewed 1951, by Robert Frost. Reprinted with the permission of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
Source: Collected Poems, Prose, & Plays (Library of America, 1995)