Poems: companions on the journey

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So we’ve shared some books and podcasts that have served us as faithful companions on the journey, and now we’d like to offer a few poems that have done the same. It took me a long time to “get” poetry, meaning it didn’t really do anything for me for a good while, or at least I didn’t think it did. But during a particularly difficult time, a poem came my way that managed to sneak past my defences, and strike home in a way that nothing else had been able to. I was floored. I think that poem taught me how to listen to a poem with my heart as well as my head. And since then I have discovered that for me the right poem at the right time can be a special kind of medicine. So here a few that have made their way into our hearts, hope you enjoy.

The Peace of Wild Things - Written by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Praise the Rain - Written by Joy Harjo

Praise the rain, the seagull dive

The curl of plant, the raven talk—

Praise the hurt, the house slack

The stand of trees, the dignity—

Praise the dark, the moon cradle

The sky fall, the bear sleep—

Praise the mist, the warrior name

The earth eclipse, the fired leap—

Praise the backwards, upward sky

The baby cry, the spirit food—

Praise canoe, the fish rush

The hole for frog, the upside-down—

Praise the day, the cloud cup

The mind flat, forget it all—

Praise crazy. Praise sad.

Praise the path on which we’re led.

Praise the roads on earth and water.

Praise the eater and the eaten.

Praise beginnings; praise the end.

Praise the song and praise the singer.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

Match - Written by Jason Reynolds

on the days the dark is vanta vicious

enough to swallow whole every holy

thing like my mother and the stigmata

she bleeds from a totem of raising black

on the days the cold is cold as all get out but

there’s no place to get in when even breath is

blade and hurts to think of thinking of breathing

let alone laughing

on the days I feel frayed and ‘fraid ripped

and torn from the lot plucked from family

and ‘nem and even myself sometimes my

name is the name of a stranger

my face still the face in the hole of a

hoodie just snatched out my own world

never mine and dragged and scraped

across the rough textured parts of this

being alive thing

i’m reminded of what it feels

like to have my head alight to

have it catch fire and blaze-lick

high above me and all this

i’m reminded to return to the truth that oh

yeah me my little self a match my little

self a cardboard cutout might could burn

this whole so-called kingdom down

The Guest House- Written by Rumi with translation by Coleman Barks

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.

meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

honour the roots- Written by Rupi Kaur

remember the body 

of your community

breathe in the people

who sewed you whole

it is you who became yourself

but those before you

are a part of your fabric

Failing and Flying - Written by Jack Gilbert

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

It’s the same when love comes to an end,

or the marriage fails and people say

they knew it was a mistake, that everybody

said it would never work. That she was

old enough to know better. But anything

worth doing is worth doing badly.

Like being there by that summer ocean

on the other side of the island while

love was fading out of her, the stars

burning so extravagantly those nights that

anyone could tell you they would never last.

Every morning she was asleep in my bed

like a visitation, the gentleness in her

like antelope standing in the dawn mist.

Each afternoon I watched her coming back

through the hot stony field after swimming,

the sea light behind her and the huge sky

on the other side of that. Listened to her

while we ate lunch. How can they say

the marriage failed? Like the people who

came back from Provence (when it was Provence)

and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,

but just coming to the end of his triumph

Autobiography In Five Short Chapters – Written by Portia Nelson

I

I walk down the street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk

I fall in.

I am lost … I am helpless.

It isn’t my fault.

It takes me forever to find a way out.

II

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I pretend I don’t see it.

I fall in again.

I can’t believe I am in the same place

but, it isn’t my fault.

It still takes a long time to get out.

III

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I see it is there.

I still fall in … it’s a habit.

my eyes are open

I know where I am.

It is my fault.

I get out immediately.

IV

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.

V

I walk down another street.

Wild Geese - Written by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees 

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

     love what it loves.                         

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean of blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.