Poem of Hope

 

Maxfield Parrish

 
  Poem of Hope


A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse;
from his roots a Branch will bear fruit.

The Spirit of the Lord will rest on him—
the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding,
the Spirit of counsel and of might,
the Spirit of the knowledge and fear of the Lord—

and he will delight in the fear of the Lord.


He will not judge by what he sees with his eyes,
or decide by what he hears with his ears;

but with righteousness he will judge the needy,
with justice he will give decisions for the poor of the earth.


He will strike the earth with the rod of his mouth;
with the breath of his lips he will slay the wicked. 

Righteousness will be his belt
and faithfulness the sash around his waist.


The wolf will live with the lamb,
the leopard will lie down with the goat,
the calf and the lion and the yearling together;
and a little child will lead them.

The cow will feed with the bear,
their young will lie down together,
and the lion will eat straw like the ox.

The infant will play near the cobra’s den,
and the young child will put its hand into the viper’s nest.

They will neither harm nor destroy

on all my holy mountain,
for the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the Lord
as the waters cover the sea.

 

Isaiah 11:1-9

Here I am in the Poem of Hope.

Here, where a dry root begins to grow, where a tree that has been cut down sprouts a new branch -  here where Hope crawls up from the ground and begins to fill the earth.

Goldwing Moth

 

   

 

Goldwing Moth

 

A goldwing moth is between the scissors and the ink bottle 

on the desk.

Last night it flew hundreds of circles around a glass bulb

and a flame wire.

The wings are a soft gold; it is the gold of illuminated

initials in manuscripts of the medieval monks.

 

Carl Sandburg 

 

I puzzle over this. 

 

The scissors and the ink bottle,

that circling a thing of light, an incandescence -

is this showing us the writer at his work?

Is the goldwing moth made holy by its object, 

by the light which compels it?

I go back over the poem, which only seems simple.

'As Imperceptibly as Grief'

 

 

 

Larry Welo

 

 As imperceptibly as Grief
The Summer lapsed away—
Too imperceptible at last
To seem like Perfidy—
A Quietness distilled
As Twilight long begun,
Or Nature spending with herself
Sequestered Afternoon—
The Dusk drew earlier in—
The Morning foreign shone—
A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,
As Guest, that would be gone—
And thus, without a Wing
Or service of a Keel
Our Summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful. 

 

Emily Dickinson 

 

Dickinson has a way of putting everything in a poem

 without making it heavy.

A sadness without wallowing. A lightness without taking lightly.

And that "our Summer" - I see how one word changes everything.

Are the passing seasons of my life an "escape into the Beautiful"?

Or do I look back with regret at what is gone?

Into the Beautiful - !

That's where I want to go.

                                                          

 

 

 

Woods

 

 

 

Gina Signore

Woods

 

I part the out thrusting branches
and come in beneath
the blessed and the blessing trees.
Though I am silent
there is singing around me.
Though I am dark
there is vision around me.
Though I am heavy
there is flight around me. 

 

Wendell Berry 

Silence, darkness, heaviness.

Singing, vision, flight. 

There is an exchange here that is extraordinary.

 

How much does nature influence our being?

The movement and sound and light - these change us.

I don't know how, but they do.