Mary's Hiding, by Rumi

This beautiful poem was given to me by my beautiful friend Daniel. I do not know who translated it.



Before these possessions you love slip away,
say what Mary said when she was

surprised by Gabriel, I'll hide inside God.
Naked in her room she saw a form

of beauty that could give her new life.
Like the sun coming up, or a rose as it opens.

She leaped, as her habit was, out of herself
into the divine presence.

There was fire in the channel of her breath.
Light and majesty came, I am smoke

from that fire and proof of its existence,
more than any external form.

I want to be where
your bare foot walks,

because maybe before you step,
you'll look at the ground. I want that blessing.

Would you like to have revealed to you
the truth of the Friend?

Leave the rind,
and descend into the pith.

Fold within fold, the beloved
drowns in its own being. This world
is drenched with that drowning.

Imagining is like feeling around
in a dark lane, or washing
your eyes with blood.

You are the truth
from foot to brow. Now,
what else would you like to know?

In Memoriam: Jack Myers

It's Not My Cup of Tea
Jack Myers

My wife wants to know
what difference does it make
what cup I drink from,
and I complain
I like what I like,
and that's the story.

We have many kinds of cups.
But this morning my favorite is dirty
and I'm hunting for something
that won't make me think:

One's a fertility goddess,
huge fructuous belly, little head.

Another's pleasant enough for guests,
but has to have its finicky little saucer
underneath it so it won't feel embarrassed.

And another, which is a smaller version
of what I like, would require me
to get up and down too many times.

You think I am spoiled
or too set in my ways
or that I'm difficult
to live with,
and you're right.

But there are so few things
that fit me in this life.
I can count them on one hand,
things the spirit can sleep in
because whoever made them
put the things of this world--
vanity, greed, a sentimental wish
to be small again--aside.

I know, I could've found my cup
and washed it
and then I'd have my cup,
But it's not my cup I want.

My friend Nadine sent me this poignant poem in memory of Jack Myers, poet and mentor of poets. He was a faculty adviser for Vermont College's creative writing program. Jack died on November 29th. If you are interested in knowing more about him and his work, here is a link: http://writersgarret.org/jackmyers.shtml. (Sorry, it's not a live link due to a glitch at Blogspot.com.)

A Wreath to the Fish by Nancy Willard

Who is this fish, still wearing its wealth,
flat on my drainboard, dead asleep,
its suit of mail proof only against the stream?
What is it to live in a stream,
to dwell forever in a tunnel of cold,
never to leave your shining birthsuit,
never to spend your inheritance of thin coins?
And who is the stream, who lolls all day
in an unmade bed, living on nothing but weather,
singing, a little mad in the head,
opening her apron to shells, carcasses, crabs,
eyeglasses, the lines of fisherman begging for
news from the interior-oh, who are these lines
that link a big sky to a small stream
that go down for great things:
the cold muscle of the trout,
the shinning scrawl of the eel in a difficult passage,
hooked-but who is this hook, this cunning
and faithful fanatic who will not let go
but holds the false bait and the true worm alike
and tears the fish, yet gives it up to the basket
in which it will ride to the kitchen
of someone important, perhaps the Pope
who rejoices that his cook has found such a fish
and blesses it and eats it and rises, saying,
"Children, what is it to live in the stream,
day after day, and come at last to the table,
transfigured with spices and herbs,
a little martyr, a little miracle;
children, children, who is this fish?"

from Water Walker, 1989

Have you ever been in the presence of someone whose presence was a gift in itself? Nancy Willard is one of those presences for me. She is the magic of her writing.She was a guest author at Hollins University's Children Literature program in the summer of 2008, when I was there.

The Kiss by Edith Nesbit

The snow is white on wood and wold,
The wind is in the firs,
So dead my heart is with the cold,
No pulse within it stirs,
Even to see your face, my dear,
Your face that was my sun;
There is no spring this bitter year,
And summer's dreams are done.

The snakes that lie about my heart
Are in their wintry sleep;
Their fangs no more deal sting and smart,
No more they curl and creep.
Love with the summer ceased to be;
The frost is firm and fast.
God keep the summer far from me,
And let the snakes' sleep last!

Touch of your hand could not suffice
To waken them once more;
Nor could the sunshine of your eyes
A ruined spring restore.
But ah-your lips! You know the rest:
The snows are summer rain,
My eyes are wet, and in my breast
The snakes' fangs meet again.

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

The Deserted Village (1770) by Oliver Goldsmith

An excerpt from the verse about the village schoolmaster (I have italicized my favorite lines!):

The village all declared how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,
For even though vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.

This one is posted with a wink for my colleague and teacher Damon.

The Panic Bird by Robert Phillips

just flew inside my chest. Some
days it lights inside my brain,
but today it's in my bonehouse,
rattling ribs like a birdcage.

If I saw it coming, I'd fend it
off with machete or baseball bat.
Or grab its scrawny hackled neck,
wring it like a wet dishrag.

But it approaches from behind.
Too late I sense it at my back --
carrion, garbage, excrement.
Once inside me it preens, roosts,

vulture on a public utility pole.
Next it flaps, it cries, it glares,
it rages, it struts, it thrusts
its clacking beak into my liver,

my guts, my heart, rips off strips.
I fill with black blood, black bile.
This may last minutes or days.
Then it lifts sickle-shaped wings,

rises, is gone, leaving a residue --
foul breath, droppings, molted midnight
feathers. And life continues.
And then I'm prey to panic again.

Shared by my friend Tabatha.