The Door

Miroslav Holub

Go and open the door.

Maybe outside there’s

a tree, or a wood,

a garden,

or a magic city.

Go and open the door.

Maybe a dog’s rummaging.

Maybe you’ll see a face,

or an eye,

or the picture

of a picture.

Go and open the door.

If there’s a fog

it will clear.

Go and open the door.

Even if there’s only

the darkness ticking,

even if there’s only

the hollow wind,

even if

nothing

is there,

go and open the door.

At least

there’ll be

a draught.

-o0o-

No Man is an Island

John Donne

No man is an island, entire of itself;

every man is a piece of the continent,

a part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less,

as well as if a promontory were,

as well as if a manor of thy friend’s

or of thine own were.

Any man’s death diminishes me,

because I am involved in mankind;

and therefore never send to know

for whom the bell tolls;

it tolls for thee.

-o0o-

Beautiful Old Age

David Herbert Lawrence

It ought to be lovely to be old 

to be full of the peace that comes of experience 

and wrinkled ripe fulfilment. 

The wrinkled smile of completeness that follows a life 

lived undaunted and unsoured with accepted lies 

they would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippins 

in their old age. 

Soothing, old people should be, like apples 

when one is tired of love. 

Fragrant like yellowing leaves, and dim with the soft 

stillness and satisfaction of autumn. 

And a girl should say: 

It must be wonderful to live and grow old. 

Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! - 

And a young man should think: By Jove 

my father has faced all weathers, but it's been a life!

-o0o-

The Bright Field

R.S. Thomas

I have seen the sun break through

to illuminate a small field

for a while, and gone my way

and forgotten it. But that was the

pearl of great price, the one field that had

treasure in it. I realise now

that I must give all that I have

to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to a receding future, nor hankering after

an imagined past. It is the turning

aside like Moses to the miracle

of the lit bush, to a brightness

that seemed as transitory as your youth

once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

-o0o-

The Red Dress

Myra Schneider

My first reaction is: I want it,

can’t wait to squeeze into

a scarlet sheath that promises

breasts round as russet apples,

a waist pinched to a pencil,

hips that know the whole dictionary

of swaying, can’t wait 

to saunter down an August street

with every eye upon me.

But the moment I’m zipped in

I can’t breathe and the fabric 

hugging my stomach without mercy

pronounces me a frump.

Besides, in the internet café,

where you can phone Tangiers

or Thailand for almost nothing

fourteen pairs of eyes

are absorbed by screens.

No one whistles when I smile

at boxes of tired mangoes 

and seedy broccoli heads 

outside the Greek superstore.

By now I’m in a fever to undo

the garment and pull it off.

And for all its flaws, for all

that it only boasts one breast,

I’m overjoyed to re-possess

my body. I remember I hate 

holding in and shutting away.

What I want is a dress easy

as a plump plum oozing

juice, as a warm afternoon

in late October creeping 

its ambers and cinnamons into

leaves, a dress that reassures 

there’s no need to pretend, 

a dress that’s as capacious 

as generosity, a dress that willingly

unbuttons and whispers in the ear:

be alive every minute of your life. 

-o0o-

Before Dawn

Penelope Shuttle

I used to wake early, and weep.

Now I wake just as early,

calm as a cloud

in the moony sky outside.

Even thinking about unpaid bills

doesn't make me weep,

though I used to weep and weep.

4.30 a.m. No way of getting back

to sleep so I listen in

to the silence of a world dark and at rest.

I know other women

wider awake than me.

I hear the silence beyond their weeping,

streetlamps outside their windows

won't blank out for hours and hours yet.

I used to wake early, etc. . .

Now I let my old friend Sleep

go his own sweet way,

listen to whoever is wide awake in me,

running the flats of her hands

over the rough walls of the world,

looking for what?

A way in? A way out?

You tell me.

-o0o-

When I have baked white cakes

Amy Lowell

When I have baked white cakes

And grated green almonds to spread upon them;

When I have picked the green crowns from the strawberries

And piled them, cone-pointed, in a blue and yellow platter;

When I have smoothed the seam of the linen I have been working;

What then?

To-morrow it will be the same:

Cakes and strawberries,

And needles in and out of cloth.

If the sun is beautiful on bricks and pewter,

How much more beautiful is the moon,

Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree;

The moon,

Wavering across a bed of tulips;

The moon,

Still,

Upon your face.

You shine, Beloved,

You and the moon.

But which is the reflection?

The clock is striking eleven.

I think, when we have shut and barred the door,

The night will be dark

Outside.

-o0o-

Beattie is Three

Adrian Mitchell

At the top of the stairs

I ask for her hand.  O.K.

She gives it to me.

How her fist fits my palm,

A bunch of consolation.

We take our time

Down the steep carpetway

As I wish silently

That the stairs were endless.

-o0o-

Folding Sheets

Marge Piercy

They must be clean

There ought to be two of you

to talk as you work,  your

eyes and hands meeting.

They can be crisp, a little rough

and fragrant from the line;

or hot from the dryer

as from the oven.  A silver

grey kitten with amber

eyes to dart among

the sheets and wrestle and leap out

helps.  But mostly pleasure

lies in the clean linen

slapping into shape.

Whenever I fold a fitted sheet

making the moves that are like

closing doors, I feel my mother.

The smell of clean laundry is hers.

-o0o-

Naming of Parts

Henry Reed

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday, 

We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning, 

We shall have what to do after firing. But today, 

Today we have naming of parts. Japonica

Glistens like coral in all the neighbouring gardens, 

And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this

Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see, 

When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, 

Which in your case you have not got. The branches

Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, 

Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released

With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me

See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy

If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms

Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see

Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this

Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it

Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this

Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards

The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: 

They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy

If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt, 

And the breech, the cocking-piece, and the point of balance, 

Which in our case we have not got; and the almond blossom

Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards, 

For today we have the naming of parts. 

-o0o-

Extract from

Under Milk Wood

Dylan Thomas

Herring gulls heckling down to the harbour where the fishermen 

spit and prop the morning up and eye the fishy sea smooth to the 

sea's end as it lulls in blue. Green and gold money, tobacco, tinned 

salmon, hats with feathers, pots of fish-paste, warmth for the 

winter-to-be, weave and leap in it rich and slippery in the flash and 

shapes of fishes through the cold sea-streets. But with blue lazy 

eyes the fishermen gaze at that milkmaid whispering water with no 

ruck or ripple as though it blew great guns and serpents and 

typhooned the town.

-o0o-

Getting Older

Elaine Feinsŧein

 The first surprise: I like it.

Whatever happens now, some things

that used to terrify have not.

 I didn’t die young, for instance. Or lose

my only love. My three children

never had to run away from anyone.

 Don’t tell me this gratitude is complacent.

We all approach the edge of the same darkness

which for me is silence.

 Knowing as much sharpens

my delight in January freesia,

hot coffee, winter sunlight. So we say

 as we lie close on some gentle occasion:

every day won from such

darkness is a celebration.

-o0o-

A Blessing

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.

-o0o-

A Wish for my Children

Evangeline Paterson

On this doorstep I stand

year after year

to watch you going

and think: May you not

skin your knees. May you

not catch your fingers

in car doors. May

your hearts not break.

May tide and weather

wait for your coming

and may you grow strong

to break

all webs of my weaving.

-o0o-

Extract from Chapter 3 

Ecclesiastes

To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
A time of war, and a time of peace.

-o0o-

Elegy for a Walnut Tree

W.S. Merwin

Old friend now there is no one alive

who remembers when you were young

it was high summer when I first saw you

in the blaze of day most of my life ago

with the dry grass whispering in your shade

and already you had lived through wars

and echoes of wars around your silence 

through days of parting and seasons of absence

with the house emptying as the years went their way

until it was home to bats and swallows

and still when spring climbed toward summer

you opened once more the curled sleeping fingers

of newborn leaves as though nothing had happened

you and the seasons spoke the same language 

and all these years I have looked through your limbs 

to the river below and the roofs and the night

and you were the way I saw the world

-o0o-

The Man on the Desert Island

Gerda Mayer

The man on the desert island

Has forgotten the ways of people,

His stories are all of himself.

Day in, day out of time,

He communes with himself and sends

Messages in green bottles:

Help me they say I am

Cast up and far from home.

Each day he goes to watch

The horizon for ships.

Nothing reaches his shore

Except corked green bottles.

-o0o

The Best Medicine

Meg Cox

It must be genetic

that just lying on our backs

made me and my brother laugh.

When we had adjoining bedrooms

our mother would shout up the stairs

"stop reading now and go to sleep."

Later she would shout again

"Stop laughing now."

Adult, I went to yoga classes

and at the end we had to lie

on our backs on our mats and relax

doing yogic breathing, but before long

I was asked to leave before that part –

disruptive to meditation.

Come to think of it

lying on my back laughing

has caused me quite a bit of trouble

in the past.

-o0o- 

Two Poems by Emily Dickinson

-o0o-

Fame is a Fickle Food

Fame is a fickle food

Upon a shifting plate

Whose table once a

Guest but not

The second time is set

Whose crumbs the crows inspect

And with ironic caw

Flap past it to the

Farmer’s corn

Men eat of it and die

-o0o-

I Stepped from Plank to Plank

I stepped from Plank to Plank

A slow and cautious way

The Stars about my Head I felt

About my Feet the Sea

I knew not but the next

Would be my final inch -

This gave me that precarious Gait

Some call Experience

-o=0=o-

Song of Songs

Extract from the Song of Solomon Chapter Two

 As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, 

so is my beloved among the sons. 

I sat down under his shadow with great delight, 

his fruit was sweet to my taste. 

 He brought me to the banquet hall. 

His banner over me is love. 

Strengthen me with raisins, 

refresh me with apples; 

For I am faint with love. 

 His left hand is under my head. 

His right hand embraces me. 

 I adjure you, daughters of Jerusalem, 

by the roes, or by the hinds of the field, 

that you not stir up, nor awaken love, 

until it so desires. 

The voice of my beloved! 

Behold, he comes, 

leaping on the mountains, 

skipping on the hills. 

 My beloved is like a roe or a young deer. 

Behold, he stands behind our wall! 

He looks in at the windows. 

He glances through the lattice. 

 My beloved spoke, and said to me, 

"Rise up, my love, my beautiful one, and come away. 

 For, behold, the winter is past. 

The rain is over and gone. 

 The flowers appear on the earth. 

The time of the singing has come, 

and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. 

 The fig tree ripens her green figs. 

The vines are in blossom. 

They give out their fragrance. 

Arise, my love, my beautiful one, 

and come away."

-o0o-

The blog is updated daily

-o=0=o-

So Much Happiness

Naomi Shihab Nye

It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.

With sadness there is something to rub against,

a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.

When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,

something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.

But happiness floats.

It doesn’t need you to hold it down.

It doesn’t need anything.

Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,

and disappears when it wants to.

You are happy either way.

Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house

and now live over a quarry of noise and dust

cannot make you unhappy.

Everything has a life of its own,

it too could wake up filled with possibilities

of coffee cake and ripe peaches,

and love even the floor which needs to be swept,

the soiled linens and scratched records . . .

Since there is no place large enough

to contain so much happiness,

you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you

into everything you touch. You are not responsible.

You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit

for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,

and in that way, be known.

-o0o-

This blog is updated every day

-o=0=o-

Extract from

Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798

William Wordsmith

Five years have past; five summers, with the length 

Of five long winters! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 

With a soft inland murmur. - Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 

The day is come when I again repose 

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 

'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 

Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, 

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke 

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! 

With some uncertain notice, as might seem 

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 

Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 

The Hermit sits alone. 

-o0o-

Another non-rhymer tomorrow

-o=0=o-

Past One O'Clock

Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Past one o'clock. You must have gone to bed.

The Milky Way streams silver through the night.

I'm in no hurry; with lightning telegrams

I have no cause to wake or trouble you.

And, as they say, the incident is closed.

Love's boat has smashed against the daily grind.

Now you and I are quits. Why bother then

to balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.

Behold what quiet settles on the world.

Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.

In hours like these, one rises to address

The ages, history, and all creation. 

-o0o-

Another No-Rhymer tomorrow

-o=0=o-

The Trees are Down

Charlotte Mew

1869-1928

- and he cried with a loud voice:

Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees -

(Revelation)

They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of the gardens.

For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish of the branches as they fall,

The crash of the trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves,

With the ‘Whoops’ and the ‘Whoas,’ the loud common talk, the loud common laughs of the men, above it all.

I remember one evening of a long past Spring

Turning in at a gate, getting out of a cart, and finding a large dead rat in the mud of the drive.

I remember thinking: alive or dead, a rat was a god-forsaken thing,

But at least, in May, that even a rat should be alive.

The week’s work here is as good as done. There is just one bough

 On the roped bole, in the fine grey rain,

  Green and high

      And lonely against the sky.

        (Down now! - )

            And but for that,   

       If an old dead rat

Did once, for a moment, unmake the Spring, I might never have  thought of him again.

It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day;

These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem:

When the men with the ‘Whoops’ and the ‘Whoas’ have carted the whole of the whispering loveliness away

Half the Spring, for me, will have gone with them.

It is going now, and my heart has been struck with the hearts of the planes;

Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains,   

      In the March wind, the May breeze,

In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.

            There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;

            They must have heard the sparrows flying,   

And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying -

           But I, all day, I heard an angel crying:

  ‘Hurt not the trees.’

-o0o-

My opinion - wonderful!!!

Another non-rhymer tomorrow

-o=0=o-