Their Fire

Albert Bierstadt

 

Their Fire

Their fire was small. They fed it only enough

To keep them through the night and to keep them

Together and unafraid

Lying between it and the face of the cliff

Where, at the foot under a hanging stone,

They had made their shelter

For a time, as others had in years so distant

Now, they seemed as thick and soft as the stillness

Standing around their sleep

In which the animals also slept (the beavers

And otters whose doors were deep under the water,

Squirrels in their hollows)

Or walked in the sleep of others (the gray foxes,

The martens and black bears, silent, listening).

Had they too wondered,

Those other makers of fire, how long to linger

In this same place, how many living seasons

It would keep them warm,

Would hold them together at a single hearthstone

While the round year turned the sky, thickened the clouds

Or thinned then, turning

The snow and the rain as it turned the wind, turned leaves

And turned the color of their hair like ermine's fur

And turned the earth?

They held their hands out to that restless fire

As if to shield it, to calm it, and they turned

Their faces to its light.

David Wagoner

I wanted to ignore the circumstances and just have poems. But poetry comes out of what we’re living. And what we’re living is so strange that it’s hard to know what to say or do. But it does feel like each family unit (sometimes that means 1, because 1 is a potential family, and comes from a family, whether blood or water, however fractured or subtracted from) is sitting by its fire, ruminating over the past, wondering about the future. We are self-absorbed at this moment, so I like how this poem brings nature back into the scene. I’m so glad to see for myself the cherry trees blossoming, or the Northern Flickers as they drum loudly on any metal available – the season is Spring and it is expanding and blossoming. It reminds me that we will too. I keep my loved ones close, and turn my face to the light. Warm my hands at the fire. What tomorrow brings is tomorrow’s problem. We’re "together now, and unafraid".

 

The Winter is Cold, is Cold

Amir Belhoula

The Winter is Cold, Is Cold

The winter is cold, is cold.

All’s spent in keeping warm.

Has joy been frozen, too?

I blow upon my hands

Stiff from the biting wind.

My heart beats slow, beats slow.

What has become of joy?

 

If joy’s gone from my heart

Then it is closed to You

Who made it, gave it life.

If I protect myself

I’m hiding, Lord, from you.

How we defend ourselves

In ancient suits of mail!

 

Protected from the sword,

Shrinking from the wound,

We look for happiness,

Small, safety-seeking, dulled,

Selfish, exclusive, in-turned.

Elusive, evasive, peace comes

Only when it’s not sought.

 

Help me forget the cold

That grips the grasping world.

Let me stretch out my hands

To purifying fire,

Clutching fingers uncurled.

Look! Here is the melting joy.

My heart beats once again.

Madeleine L' Engle

 

Snow and fire. Fear or trust. 

 

 

Where does joy begin?

Luck Is a Star

Quang Ho

Luck is a star.

Money is a plaything.

Time is a storyteller.

And the sky goes blue with mornings.

And the sky goes bronze with sunsets.

And the fireborn - they go far -

Being at home in fire.

Carl Sandburg 

 Sandburg throws down this "something-is-something else" with such ease. "Luck is a star"? Okay, if he means something far away and beautiful that we dream of reaching, I can follow. "Money is a plaything", yes, money is like that, something we use and move around and pass and receive it very much as we would pieces in a game. And also, a plaything, not the deep-down stuff of life (in spite of all talk to the contrary). "Time is a storyteller", that's the best one. So full of thoughts and ideas - I could chew on it a good while. How Time spins stories, how it uses the sky as a backdrop for its drama. Sky goes blue, sky goes bronze; Sandburg makes such sweeping word/image gestures it knocks me back. And then the kicker - "the fireborn" - with just one word, how he changes us! We're not put-upon, victims of fate or chance, we're the Fireborn. We're characters in this story. Above us, the sky changes colour, the stars call us, the money moves from hand to hand, and we are tested by fire. What will it prove us to be? How far will we go? Only Time, the storyteller, knows.

 

Signs of Christmas

Angelo Inganni

Signs of Christmas

When on the barn's thatch'd roof is seen
The moss in tufts of liveliest green;
When Roger to the wood pile goes,
And, as he turns, his fingers blows;
When all around is cold and drear,
Be sure that Christmas-tide is near.

When up the garden walk in vain
We seek for Flora's lovely train;
When the sweet hawthorn bower is bare,
And bleak and cheerless is the air;
When all seems desolate around,
Christmas advances o'er the ground.

When Tom at eve comes home from plough,
And brings the mistletoe's green bough,
With milk-white berries spotted o'er,
And shakes it the sly maids before,
Then hangs the trophy up on high,
Be sure that Christmas-tide is nigh.

When Hal, the woodman, in his clogs,
Bears home the huge unwieldly logs,
That, hissing on the smould'ring fire,
Flame out at last a quiv'ring spire;
When in his hat the holly stands,
Old Christmas musters up his bands.

When cluster'd round the fire at night,
Old William talks of ghost and sprite,
And, as a distant out-house gate
Slams by the wind, they fearful wait,
While some each shadowy nook explore,
Then Christmas pauses at the door.

When Dick comes shiv'ring from the yard,
And says the pond is frozen hard,
While from his hat, all white with snow,
The moisture, trickling, drops below,
While carols sound, the night to cheer,
Then Christmas and his train are here.

Edwin Lees

Roger, Tom, Hal, Old William,and Dick - they sound like such interesting country folk. I like how this poem shows how time was measured more by weather and plants and things like the pond being frozen solid, than by calendar and clock. Time was different. It wasn't a number in the same way it is for us now. It was cycles and seasons, subtle changes in nature and in people. Something in me misses that. I say "misses" because I think we all have a connection to that way of being, however weak.

The Fire of Drift-wood

Elton Bennett

The Fire of Drift-wood

We sat within the farm-house old,

Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,

Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold,

An easy entrance, night and day.

Not far away we saw the port,

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,

The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,

The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

We sat and talked until the night,

Descending, filled the little room;

Our faces faded from the sight,

Our voices only broke the gloom.

We spake of many a vanished scene,

Of what we once had thought and said,

Of what had been, and might have been,

And who was changed, and who was dead;

And all that fills the hearts of friends,

When first they feel, with secret pain,

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,

And never can be one again;

The first slight swerving of the heart,

That words are powerless to express,

And leave it still unsaid in part,

Or say it in too great excess.

The very tones in which we spake

Had something strange, I could but mark;

The leaves of memory seemed to make

A mournful rustling in the dark.

Oft died the words upon our lips,

As suddenly, from out the fire

Built of the wreck of stranded ships,

The flames would leap and then expire.

And, as their splendor flashed and failed,

We thought of wrecks upon the main,

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed

And sent no answer back again.

The windows, rattling in their frames,

The ocean, roaring up the beach,

The gusty blast, the bickering flames,

All mingled vaguely in our speech;

Until they made themselves a part

Of fancies floating through the brain,

The long-lost ventures of the heart,

That send no answers back again.

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!

They were indeed too much akin,

The drift-wood fire without that burned,

The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The weather has changed. We can feel Autumn in the air. The rains have started. Here some friends are looking into the fire and talking –“The leaves of memory seemed to make/ A mournful rustling in the dark.” Oh I love that line (and that the fire is made from the wood of wrecked ships). Such a beautifully melancholy mood, perfect for this time of year. And that gorgeous conclusion – “The driftwood fire without that burned./ The thoughts that burned and glowed within.” I wish I could’ve found an image more true to the scene in the poem, but the rain and the shoreline and fire are so lovely in themselves.