To His Ever-Loving God

Unknown

To His Ever-Loving God

Can I not come to Thee, my God, for these

So very-many-meeting hindrances,

That slack my pace; but yet not make me stay?

Who slowly goes, rids (in the end) his way.

Cleere Thou my paths, or shorten Thou my miles,

Remove the barrs, or lift me o'er the stiles:

Since rough the way is, help me when I call,

And take me up; or els prevent the fall.

I kenn my home; and it affords some ease,

To see far off the smoaking Villages.

Fain would I rest; yet covet not to die,

For fear of future-biting penurie:

No, no (my God) Thou know'st my wishes be

To leave this life, not loving it, but Thee.

Robert Herrick

“I kenn my home; and it affords some ease, to see far off the smoaking Villages.” 
 

Such a satisfying poem – that image of a road full of frustrating obstacles, and the smoking chimney of home drawing us on in spite of our tiredness – the expressive choice of words, “so-very-many-meeting hindrances”, “future-biting penury” - the rhythmic back-and-forth of his pleas, do this or this, help me this way or else another - the sure-fit of the rhyme balanced against the uncertainty within his journey – all of this moves me, nevermind the last line, the line that stops the swish-swash of thoughts, yanks me from the earthosphere and back into the eternal. I know my home. My home is God, not the house but the Him-everywhere-and within.

Daisies

Unknown

Daisies

It is possible, I suppose, that sometime

we will learn everything

there is to learn: what the world is, for example,

and what it means. I think this as I am crossing

from one field to another, in summer, and the

mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either

knows enough already or knows enough to be

perfectly content not knowing. Song being born

of quest he knows this: he must turn silent

were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead




oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly

unanswered. At my feet the white-petaled daisies display

the small suns of their center-piece - their, if you don't

mind my saying so - their hearts. Of course

I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and

narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know.

But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,

to see what is plain; what the sun

lights up willingly; for example - I think this

as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch -

the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the

daisies for the field.

Mary Oliver



More Mary Oliver. More of her poems to punctuate my days. She recalls me to nature, and especially the "personal" natural world. "Science"might quibble, might say she anthropomorphizes, which is to accuse her of being childish and sentimental. I disagree. Seeing an animal or object as having personal meaning to us, having individuality (in the sense of uniqueness and purpose), and of their existence impacting us, as in "saying" or communicating a message to us, all of this seems obvious and true to me. (It's very strange to think that scientists, of all people, whose work involves studying natural things and phenomena closely, and whose lifework is so enjoined with nature that it could be said that it becomes part of their person; and whose attempts to describe and explain what they discover comes more close to pure poetry than any other profession aside from poets themselves, that they have so often been the ones telling us "Don't make this about you! Don't ascribe human characteristics to other forms of life!" is incredible. Impossible. "Take what is given..see what is plain."! 

 

 I walk through a field of daisies, and wonder what the mockingbird is singing about. It is singing about something that matters, both to it and to me. I look at a daisy and say it has a heart, meaning that it has a centre, an intention, and a Source - as I do - and recognize the thread between us, the pattern and symmetry we both are part of. 

 

Fact is only part of the truth. Proof is in life, in how we live in spite of what we say we think. It's personal. The bird mocks us, "as one who knows enough already or knows enough to be perfectly content not knowing". No matter how much we learn, birdsongs and flower hearts will always be speaking to us of more. Learning "all there is to learn" is not necessary, not the point. The connection, the pattern, the Source, all these, these are better than knowing. As cummings said in "little birds" ,

"may my heart always be open to little
 birds who are the secret of living
whatever they sing is better than to know". 

In Praise of Hands

Unknown

In Praise of Hands

The heart may falter but the hand goes on.

Wiser than heartbreak, the cool, eyeless hand

Makes bread, makes mortar, lays the cornerstone,

Tills the slow-answering land.

At eight o'clock the mothers plait and part

Their daughters' hair. The factory whistles rise,

The streets grow vocal. Here, bewildered heart,

Your evident answer lies.

Yesterday dwindles while tomorrow grows.

Today is ours - importunate and soon.

Quick, hands! To work! How fast the morning goes.

The whistles blow for noon.

Jessica Nelson North


"The heart may falter but the hand goes on." I wonder if this is parallel to what the caterpillar does. Weaving a garment, constructing a hibernating-house, a renewal chamber - moving unthinkingly according to some instinct or habit or body-knowledge. Sometimes, in deep grief or shock or confusion/fear, the body acts of itself. The feet bring us to old places, the hands lift and move, perform intricate tasks that we watch as if from a great distance. The body continues forward while the mind is motionless. Hidden and still, though surrounded by bustle, by noise and commotion. What is this state? It's not quite paralysis, it's not quite numbness - what is it? And at some point, the bewildered heart comes to, recognizes the passing time, and joins the hands at their work.








 

Rise

Unknown

Rise

One thing happens, then another.

In the long slow rise, so many hands

reach out and lift us

over fallen branches, hidden drops,

old crops of stone. The moon

tilts up its yellow chin. The clouds

disperse. We grow into a face

our mothers recognize as someone else:

a father's father, sister's sister.

Nobody is single in this world,

that's all we know, will ever know,

about the way we come and go.

We're pulled to presence by a doctor's

urgent, gentle hands; we're laid

to sleep and covered over. Nobody's

alone. I'm here with you. Here

reaching for your fingers, holding on.

Jay Parini

“Nobody is single in this world.” That line is worth some thought. It's not confined to genetics or proximity or time. We are connected, a "we" - past, present, and future. Which means, hard as it might be to accept, that how we think of and treat ourselves is as crucial as how we think of and treat others. The important things that we can't seem to do for ourselves should perhaps then be done for the sake of others. We are more than merely ourselves. We are links, we are layers, shelters, balms, we are threads in the web that holds us all up, that supports us. "Nobody is single in this world." Everyone is necessary. So if you're sinking, reach out your hand. It matters to us all.