I don’t have much to say, or type, rather, these days, but I’ve been reading quite a bit of poetry. I’ve also been reading the news from time to time, and if you, like me, have found yourself searching for glimmers of light amidst the dark and tumultuous shit storm that is, well, the current state of the world, then here are a few poems that have helped me to get by at some point or another.
Take what you need and leave the rest.
Be Not Defeated by the Rain by Kenji Miyazawa*
Be not defeated by the rain, Nor let the wind prove your better.
Succumb not to the snows of winter. Nor be bested by the heat of summer.
Be strong in body. Unfettered by desire. Not enticed to anger. Cultivate a quiet joy.
Count yourself last in everything. Put others before you.
Watch well and listen closely. Hold the learned lessons dear.
A thatch-roof house, in a meadow, nestled in a pine grove’s shade.
A handful of rice, some miso, and a few vegetables to suffice for the day.
If, to the East, a child lies sick: Go forth and nurse him to health.
If, to the West, an old lady stands exhausted: Go forth, and relieve her of burden.
If, to the South, a man lies dying: Go forth with words of courage to dispel his fear.
If, to the North, an argument or fight ensues:
Go forth and beg them stop such a waste of effort and of spirit.
In times of drought, shed tears of sympathy.
In summers cold, walk in concern and empathy.
Stand aloof of the unknowing masses:
Better dismissed as useless than flattered as a “Great Man”.
This is my goal, the person I strive to become.
*Translated by David Shulz
Wild Geese by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Pour le CGT by Rod Smith
We work too hard.
We’re too tired
to fall in love.
Therefore we must
overthrow the government.
We work too hard.
We’re too tired
to overthrow the government.
Therefore we must
fall in love.
My House by Nikki Giovanni*
I only want to
be there to kiss you
as you want to be kissed
when you need to be kissed
where I want to kiss you
cause it’s my house, and I plan to live in it
I really need to hug you
when I want to hug you
as you like to hug me.
Does this sound like a silly poem?
I mean, it’s my house
and I want to fry pork chops
and bake sweet potatoes
and call them yams
cause i run the kitchen
and I can stand the heat
I spent all winter in
carpet stores gathering
patches so I could make
a quilt.
Does this really sound
like a silly poem?
I mean I want to keep you
warm
and my windows might be dirty
but it’s my house
and if I can’t see out sometimes
they can’t see in either.
English isn’t a good language
to express emotion through
mostly I imagine, because people
try to speak English instead
of trying to speak through it.
I don’t know, maybe it is
a silly poem.
I’m saying it’s my house
and I’ll make fudge and call
it love and touch my lips
to the chocolate warmth
and smile at old men and call
it revolution cause what’s real
is really real
and I still like men in tight
pants cause everybody has some
thing to give and more
important needs something to take
and this is my house and you make me
happy
so this is your poem.
*listen to it on Apple Music or Spotify for maximum joy
The World Feels Heavy*
a sopping wet sweater, permanently soiled,
falling towards the floor, slave to gravity’s pull.
But there are still moments, however fleeting,
that lighten the load for a while:
a soft hum escaping the lips
at the first taste of a perfect brew,
a prolonged sigh as the clouds burst,
taking the heat with them, and a quiet
pitter patter on the zinc roof—
drops of rain or a feathered friend?
shared silence from comfort, not conflict,
spirited talks about literature, film,
the absence of white noise inside the mind
inner critic finally silenced for a while,
the sun coming up after a long night.
The world’s feels like its stitches have come loose at the seams,
like we are falling apart, with no one
capable of sewing us back together
but at least there’s the comfort still of little joys
as insignificant as they may seem.
*a poem by me.
What’s your all-time favorite poem? Leave some recommendations in the comments!
Khaila A. Gentle 