Miracles

Laura Thomas

Miracles


Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim-the rocks-the motion of the waves-the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?


Walt Whitman

 

Whitman is right. Miracles are common as dirt. Everywhere we look – can we explain the things we see, the normal, everyday things – a glass of water! Think of the mysteries in a glass of water alone – what is the water made of ? How has it come to be in the glass? Where has it been? And the glass – we may think we know what it's made of, but how was glass first discovered? Who was it that saw what could be done with it? One question only leads to another. One fantastic thing only leads to another. And we walk through our homes, through our streets, through forests, along beaches and streams – surrounded, innundated, swirled within an expanding crescendo of amazement. 

It's quite true, there is nothing I know that is not a miracle.

 

Winter Night

Craig Stephens

Winter Night

  It snowed and snowed, the whole world over,

  Snow swept the world from end to end.

  A candle burned on the table;

  A candle burned.

  As during summer midges swarm

  To beat their wings against a flame

  Out in the yard the snowflakes swarmed

  To beat against the window pane

  The blizzard sculptured on the glass

  Designs of arrows and of whorls.

  A candle burned on the table;

  A candle burned.

  Distorted shadows fell

  Upon the lighted ceiling:

  Shadows of crossed arms,of crossed legs-

  Of crossed destiny.

  Two tiny shoes fell to the floor

  And thudded.

  A candle on a nightstand shed wax tears

  Upon a dress.

  All things vanished within

  The snowy murk-white,hoary.

  A candle burned on the table;

  A candle burned.

  A corner draft fluttered the flame

  And the white fever of temptation

  Upswept its angel wings that cast

  A cruciform shadow

  It snowed hard throughout the month

  Of February, and almost constantly

  A candle burned on the table;

  A candle burned.

Boris Pasternak 
 

Mostly because it is snowing madly as I write this, and I have a candle burning. I like this poem’s mesmeric repetition which has the same effect on me that staring at a candle does, or watching snow fall. Also the allusions to stories, and that feeling of hidden things, “cruciform shadows”, as if forecasting something to come. All this made more sense to me when I learned it is from Pasternak’s “Dr. Zhivago”. (I read it years ago, and to be honest, it wasn’t to my taste. I have no recollection of the poems written by its main character, but I’m intrigued now.  I may have to go back through the book and remind myself why the candle was burning and what’s going on with the shoes and the dress.  Or not. I rather like not knowing.) Another thing about this poem is that of course it’s translated from Russian. Translated poetry is a strange animal –  in poetry every word is carefully considered and placed - how can it truly be translated? Some words do not even exist in other languages. But because I don’t know what I’m missing, I can just enjoy what’s here. The image of snowflakes “swarming”, for instance, is brilliant. I look out my window, and that’s exactly what I see.

 

Nor Is It Written

Kenne Gregoire

Nor Is It Written

Nor is it written that you may not grieve.
There is no rule of joy; long may you dwell
Not smiling yet in that last pain,
On that last supper of the heart.
It is not written that you must take joy
Because not thus again shall you sit down
To ply the mingled banquet
Which the deep larder of illusion shed
Like myth in time grown not astonishing.
Lean to the cloth awhile, and yet awhile,
And even may your eyes caress
Proudly the used abundance.
It is not written in what heart
You may not pass from magic plenty
Into the straitened nowadays.
To each is given secrecy of heart,
To make himself what heart he please
In stirring up from that fond table
To sit him down at this sharp meal.
It shall not here be asked of him
‘What thinks your heart?’
Long may you sorely to yourself upbraid
This truth unwild, this only-bread.
It is not counted what large passions
Your heart in ancient private keeps alive.
To each is given what defeat he will.

Laura Riding

The thing about this poem is its refusal to sugar-coat life. It does me a lot of good, somehow. Naming the bad, looking at it for what it is - a "sharp meal" at the banquet of life. I love that image too, of the circumstances as a meal, as food, a banquet. It implies so many things. That there will be different kinds of meals at different times, that sometimes it will not be good, it will be burnt, or off, or meager, or, in turn, that it might be a feast, abundant, something to savour. The hope at the center of the poem is that you may eat crow for a long time, and you don't have to say its turkey - but in spite of its bad taste, it is feeding you, you are being nourished, and it will change.