In a previous post, I shared a poem introduced on Radio 4’s Today programme. BBC staff were taking turns reading poems that had meaning for them, a moment in my day that I also found helpful.
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| A rare, clear view of Great Britain from the international space station |
In turn, I started passing on poems to others in this world of quarantine. Many I heard on the radio, some new to me (like that first one), others well known. Some were shared with me by friends, and some are just among my favorites. Some resonated with a particular time during the lockdown: the psalm by Ian Sowton, a poet and fellow congregant at Holy Trinity, Toronto, was read during Holy Week*, while “For the Fallen” seemed appropriate for the 75th anniversary of Victory in Europe (VE Day).
Almost all of these poems are available publicly online. In a few cases, I have not included a link because the link I found did not actually get the words right, and I went by the book in my hand. It is not my intention to abridge anyone’s copyright here. If you also find poetry helpful in getting through tough times, and have the ability, I encourage you to buy books (preferably including some contemporary poets who could use the income) or make a contribution to the Poetry Foundation.
Quarantine comes from “forty” (days) and although these abnormal times are far from over, I now have forty poems. As people in various countries start to move, tentatively and (please God) safely, into whatever the future is going to look like, I hope some of these will move, entertain, or just connect you to others, as they have me.
1. Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare ["Let me not to the marriage of true minds"]
2. "On Time" by Kahlil Gibran
3. "These Are the Hands" by Michael Rosen
4. “Heavy” by Mary Oliver. This poem was sent to me by our lovely cousin Lezlee.
1. Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare ["Let me not to the marriage of true minds"]
2. "On Time" by Kahlil Gibran
3. "These Are the Hands" by Michael Rosen
4. “Heavy” by Mary Oliver. This poem was sent to me by our lovely cousin Lezlee.
7. This poem was for the 250th birthday of William Wordsworth. It's from a special illustrated collection that my aunt Janet gave me in childhood. The illustrator is Krystyna Orska.
*9. "Lazarus" by Ian Sowton
11. "Return" by Mary Dorcey (b. 1950, Ireland). This is what my mom read at Trish's and my civil partnership ceremony.
At last, the train will lurch in,
twenty minutes past the hour, the
dark flesh of the hills, heaved behind
before us, the narrowing fields,
the layered clouds, drifting
beyond us, lit for some other advent.
And everything will conspire
against me: luggage and children
crowding the aisle. A white-haired
woman, home from England,
Awkward with haste, will labour
her case to the door, her floral
print dress, a last check between me
and my first glimpse of you.
And there you are--by the turnstile
I will see you come through, though you
miss me; your brilliant eyes in flight
along the carriage windows.
You will wear your red, linen shirt,
the sleeves turned back, and snatched
From the hedges as you drove,
a swathe of flowers in your arms.
(Such a trail strewn behind us--a trail
of departures and pardons.) And my
blood will betray me--the old response,
I will hesitate, as if there might
still be time to change course,
or simply, not wanting to be caught
waiting for your gaze? The sky
will shift as I step out, a handful
Of sun thrust down on your hair.
On the narrow platform, our hips
will draw close, we will not mind
how they stare--the aggrieved faces--
such a fuss for a woman!
And in that moment, your laughter,
the heat of your neck at my mouth,
it will all be behind me again
I swear, as though coming home,
as though for the first time.
14. "A Free Praise Song for the Pandemic" written and read by Christine Valters Paintner
16. "Yr Arwr/The Hero" by Hedd Wyn (b. Ellis Evans, d. 1917 at Passchendaele). In times this strange, we need a poem that contains both lilacs and a dragon.
17. "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" by William Butler Yeats
18.
Doctors tell me that some people wonder who they are, they don't
know if they are Peter Pumpkin-eater or Priam,
But I know who I am.
My identity is no mystery to unravel,
Because I know who I am, especially when I travel.
I am he whom the dear little old ladies who have left their pocketbooks on the bureau at home invariably approach,
And he whom the argumentative tippler oozes in beside though there are thirty empty seats in the coach.
I am he who finds himself reading comics to somebody else's children while the harassed mother attends to the youngest's needs,
Ending up with candy bar on the lapel of whose previously faultless
tweeds.
I am he in the car full of students celebrating victory with instruments saxophonic and ukulelean,
And he who, speaking only English, is turned to for aid by the non-
English-speaking alien.
I am he who, finding himself the occupant of one Pullman space that has been sold twice, next finds himself playing Santa,
Because it was sold the second time to an elderly invalid, so there is no question about who is going to sit in the washroom
Philadelphia to Atlanta.
I guess I am he who if he had his own private car
Would be jockeyed into sharing the master bedroom with a man with a five-cent cigar.
20. "There Will Come Soft Rains [War Time]" by Sara Teasdale. I've loved this poem for more than thirty years, but it never sounded quite like it does now.
23. "This Is Just To Say" by William Carlos Williams
26. “To His Coy Mistress” by Andrew Marvell. This is an oldie, but I was reminded of it by a rabbi on the radio who paraphrased Marvell:"The laptop's a fine and private place/ But none, I think, do there embrace."
27.
"All That We Let In"
Dust in our eyes our own boots kicked up
Heartsick we nurse along the way we picked up
You may not see it when it's sticking to your skin
But we're better off for all that we let in
We've lost friends and loved ones much too young
With so much promise and work left undone
When all that guards us is a single center line
And the brutal crossing over when it's time
Chorus:
Well, I don't know where it all begins
And I don't know where it all will end
We're better off for all that we let in
One day those toughies will be withered up and bent
The father son, the holy warriors and the president
With glory days of put up dukes for all the world to see
Beaten into submission in the name of the free
We're in an evolution, I have heard it said
And everyone's so busy now but do we move ahead
The planets hurling and atoms splitting
And a sweater for your love you sit there knitting
Well, I don't know where it all begins
And I don't know where it all will end
We're better off for all that we let in
You see those crosses on the side of the road
Or tied with ribbons in the median
They make me grateful I can go this mile
Lay me down at night and wake me up again
Kat writes a poem and she sticks it on my truck
We don't believe in war and we don't believe in luck
The birds were calling to her, what were they saying
As the gate blew open in the tops of the trees were swaying
I pass the cemetery, walk my dog down there
I read the names in stone and say a silent prayer
When I get home, you're cooking supper on the stove
And the greatest gift of life is to know love
Well, I don't know where it all begins
And I don't know where it all will end
We're better off for all that we let in
28. "A Pint of Plain is Your Only Man," also known as "The Workman's Friend," by Brian O'Nolan.
When things go wrong and will not come right,
Though you do the best you can,
When life looks black as the hour of night –
A pint of plain is your only man.
When money’s tight and hard to get
And your horse has also ran,
When all you have is a heap of debt –
A pint of plain is your only man.
When health is bad and your heart feels strange,
And your face is pale and wan,
When doctors say you need a change,
A pint of plain is your only man.
When food is scarce and your larder bare
And no rashers grease your pan,
When hunger grows as your meals are rare –
A pint of plain is your only man.
29. “On Nurses” by Roger Robinson
30. More Mary Oliver: "Wild Geese"
31. “A Poem on Hope” by Wendell Berry
31. “A Poem on Hope” by Wendell Berry
It is hard to have hope. It is harder as you grow old,
For hope must not depend on feeling good
And there is the dream of loneliness at absolute midnight.
You also have withdrawn belief in the present reality
Of the future, which surely will surprise us,
…And hope is harder when it cannot come by prediction
Any more than by wishing. But stop dithering.
The young ask the old to hope. What will you tell them?
Tell them at least what you say to yourself.
And there is the dream of loneliness at absolute midnight.
You also have withdrawn belief in the present reality
Of the future, which surely will surprise us,
…And hope is harder when it cannot come by prediction
Any more than by wishing. But stop dithering.
The young ask the old to hope. What will you tell them?
Tell them at least what you say to yourself.
Because we have not made our lives to fit
Our places, the forests are ruined, the fields eroded,
The streams polluted, the mountains overturned. Hope
Then to belong to your place by your own knowledge
Of what it is that no other place is, and by
Your caring for it as you care for no other place, this
Place that you belong to though it is not yours,
For it was from the beginning and will be to the end
Our places, the forests are ruined, the fields eroded,
The streams polluted, the mountains overturned. Hope
Then to belong to your place by your own knowledge
Of what it is that no other place is, and by
Your caring for it as you care for no other place, this
Place that you belong to though it is not yours,
For it was from the beginning and will be to the end
Belong to your place by knowledge of the others who are
Your neighbors in it: the old man, sick and poor,
Who comes like a heron to fish in the creek,
And the fish in the creek, and the heron who manlike
Fishes for the fish in the creek, and the birds who sing
In the trees in the silence of the fisherman
And the heron, and the trees that keep the land
They stand upon as we too must keep it, or die.
Your neighbors in it: the old man, sick and poor,
Who comes like a heron to fish in the creek,
And the fish in the creek, and the heron who manlike
Fishes for the fish in the creek, and the birds who sing
In the trees in the silence of the fisherman
And the heron, and the trees that keep the land
They stand upon as we too must keep it, or die.
This knowledge cannot be taken from you by power
Or by wealth. It will stop your ears to the powerful
when they ask for your faith, and to the wealthy
when they ask for your land and your work.
Answer with knowledge of the others who are here
And how to be here with them. By this knowledge
Make the sense you need to make. By it stand
In the dignity of good sense, whatever may follow.
Speak to your fellow humans as your place
Has taught you to speak, as it has spoken to you.
Speak its dialect as your old compatriots spoke it
Before they had heard a radio. Speak
Publicly what cannot be taught or learned in public.
Or by wealth. It will stop your ears to the powerful
when they ask for your faith, and to the wealthy
when they ask for your land and your work.
Answer with knowledge of the others who are here
And how to be here with them. By this knowledge
Make the sense you need to make. By it stand
In the dignity of good sense, whatever may follow.
Speak to your fellow humans as your place
Has taught you to speak, as it has spoken to you.
Speak its dialect as your old compatriots spoke it
Before they had heard a radio. Speak
Publicly what cannot be taught or learned in public.
Listen privately, silently to the voices that rise up
From the pages of books and from your own heart.
Be still and listen to the voices that belong
To the streambanks and the trees and the open fields.
There are songs and sayings that belong to this place,
By which it speaks for itself and no other.
From the pages of books and from your own heart.
Be still and listen to the voices that belong
To the streambanks and the trees and the open fields.
There are songs and sayings that belong to this place,
By which it speaks for itself and no other.
Found your hope, then, on the ground under your feet.
Your hope of Heaven, let it rest on the ground
Underfoot. Be it lighted by the light that falls
Freely upon it after the darkness of the nights
And the darkness of our ignorance and madness.
Let it be lighted also by the light that is within you,
Which is the light of imagination. By it you see
The likeness of people in other places to yourself
In your place. It lights invariably the need for care
Toward other people, other creatures, in other places
As you would ask them for care toward your place and you.
Your hope of Heaven, let it rest on the ground
Underfoot. Be it lighted by the light that falls
Freely upon it after the darkness of the nights
And the darkness of our ignorance and madness.
Let it be lighted also by the light that is within you,
Which is the light of imagination. By it you see
The likeness of people in other places to yourself
In your place. It lights invariably the need for care
Toward other people, other creatures, in other places
As you would ask them for care toward your place and you.
No place at last is better than the world. The world
Is no better than its places. Its places at last
Are no better than their people while their people
Continue in them. When the people make
Dark the light within them, the world darkens.
Is no better than its places. Its places at last
Are no better than their people while their people
Continue in them. When the people make
Dark the light within them, the world darkens.
33. “[in Just]" by e e cummings
35. “This Lime-tree Bower my Prison” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
39. “Atlantic Crossing” by Rod McKuen.
1 comment:
A unique and fine collection of poetry. A slow and careful reading of all 40 of these is quite an education in itself. "They say poetry is broadening" too. P & G
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