The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: Ending With William Stafford

I have enjoyed celebrating National Poetry Month by revisiting favorite poems, finding new poems, and sharing my love for poetry on the blog. I am going to wrap up my poetry poets today with this poem by William Stafford. I have taught this poem, I have read and reread this poem, I have shared this poem often, and have always loved it. It provides the reader with a simple reminder. Be present. Capture this moment now and embrace it, then "keep it for life".

You Reading This, Be Ready
by William Stafford

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life —

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: "Why We Write"

My sister first introduced me to Julia Cameron many years ago. I have been inspired by many of her books, and practiced her writing techniques. This poem has always been a favorite at helping me articulate why it is important to write, whether is it a journal, notes on a scrap of paper, a blog post, or an essay. Enjoy.

Why We Write

By Julia Cameron

There are many things which resist naming,

And that is why we write.

We write because language is slippery,

And the truth is.

We write because

The light we have to see by

Is always shifting

Never forget that writers are prophets.

We speak in tongues.

We testify.

We are for each other a believing mirror.

Our words make us visible.

Our listening makes us heard.

Never forget that writers are soldiers.

Our writing is the long march,

The walk into time.

Each word is a drum.

We sound it across great distances,

Reaching one another and ourselves.

Every poem is a day's march.

A celebration more necessary than water or wine.

Every poem is a drink of blood.

Never forget that writing is an act of courage -

Not on the days when it is simple and we discount it.

Not on the days when it is hard and we write like sand.

Our words are torches.

We pass them hand to hand

And mouth to mouth

Like a burning kiss.

Never forget to say thank you.

Every syllable is a grace.

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: " An Afternoon In The Stacks"

I think the best way to spend an afternoon is in the stacks.

An Afternoon In The Stacks by Mary Oliver

Closing the book, I find I have left my head
inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open
their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound,
words adjusting themselves to their meaning.
Long passages open at successive pages. An echo,
continuous from the title onward, hums
behind me. From in here, the world looms,
a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences
carved out when an author traveled and a reader
kept the way open. When this book ends
I will pull it inside-out like a sock
and throw it back in the library. But the rumor
of it will haunt all that follows in my life.
A candleflame in Tibet leans when I move.

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: Vintage Judith Viorst

Judith Viorst's poetry has resonated with me since I first read "If I Were In Charge of the World and other worries" which came out my fourth year of teaching. I also loved reading and teaching with her children's books. As I got older I began reading her light verse volumes on aging which she has written for each decade of her life.  I loved how she could identify the ups and downs, and cheers and jeers of each decade.
I read an article about her today and was dumbfounded to realize she is 88 years old. How did that happen? She said she has never been happier and said  "I'm only a girl of 88." I want to be just like her at 88. I revisted her "Suddenly Sixty" anthology today and had to share this favorite. I can sure relate.

When Asked If I Thought That I'd Finally Got It Together

I had it together on Sunday,
By Monday at noon it had cracked.
On Tuesday debris
Was descending on me,
And by Wednesday no part was intact.
On Thursday I picked up some pieces,
On Friday I picked up the rest.
By Saturday ,late,
It was almost set straight.
And on Sunday the world was impressed
With how well I had got it together.
But spare me the cheers and applause,
For as the world turns
Every sixty-plus learns
That among life's immutable laws
Is one that we're bound to be bound to
Right through to the end of our days:
That although we may get it together,
Together is not how it stays.
-Judith Viorst
from "Suddenly Sixty, and Other Shocks of Later Life

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: "i am a little church"

At peace with nature, always

i am a little church

by e. e. cummings

i am a little church(no great cathedral) – i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth’s own clumsily striving (finding and losing and laughing and crying)children whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope, and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature – i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring, i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence (welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness) 

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: Daffodils

As I took a walk through our gardens today I was reminded how much I love daffodils. They are the brightest and hardiest sign of spring. These are some of my favorite daffodil bouquet images.

To Daffodils 

by Robert Herrick

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon; 

As yet the early-rising sun 

Has not attain'd his noon. 

Stay, stay, 

Until the hasting day 

Has run 

But to the even-song; 

And, having pray'd together, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay, as you, 

We have as short a spring; 

As quick a growth to meet decay, 

As you, or anything. 

We die 

As your hours do, and dry 

Away, 

Like to the summer's rain; 

Or as the pearls of morning's dew, 

Ne'er to be found again. 

Add caption

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: Hope

I always hold on to hope.


Hope     
   
It hovers in dark corners
before the lights are turned on,  
it shakes sleep from its eyes  
and drops from mushroom gills,  
it explodes in the starry heads  
of dandelions turned sages,  
it sticks to the wings of green angels  
that sail from the tops of maples.    
It sprouts in each occluded eye  
of the many-eyed potato,  
it lives in each earthworm segment  
surviving cruelty,  
it is the motion that runs the tail of a dog,  
it is the mouth that inflates the lungs  
of the child that has just been born.    
It is the singular gift  
we cannot destroy in ourselves,  
the argument that refutes death,  
the genius that invents the future,  
all we know of God.    
It is the serum which makes us swear  
not to betray one another;  
it is in this poem, trying to speak.    
   
Lisel Mueller

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: "Let Evening Come"

Jane Kenyon is one of my favorite poets. The reason I like this poem is because it reminds me of those evenings after sadness, illness, or work has filled the day and you just wait for the time when you can rest, find comfort, and reflect on the beauty the day held.

Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon

shine through chinks in the barn, moving   

up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing   

as a woman takes up her needles   

and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned   

in long grass. Let the stars appear

and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.   

Let the wind die down. Let the shed   

go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop   

in the oats, to air in the lung   

let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t   

be afraid. God does not leave us   

comfortless, so let evening come.

by Jane Kenyon

Jane Kenyon, “Let Evening Come” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 2005 by the Estate of Jane Kenyon. Reprinted with the permission of Graywolf Press, St. Paul, Minnesota, www.graywolfpress.org.

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: "The Last Battle"

Our sweet Lily died during the night in her sleep. We didn't have to make a decision to end of her life today. I still love the heartfelt meaning of this poem.

The Last Battle

If it should be that I grow frail and weak
And pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then will you do what must be done,
For this — the last battle — can't be won.
You will be sad I understand,
But don't let grief then stay your hand,
For on this day, more than the rest,
Your love and friendship must stand the test.

We have had so many happy years,
You wouldn't want me to suffer so.
When the time comes, please, let me go.
Take me to where to my needs they'll tend,
Only, stay with me till the end
And hold me firm and speak to me
Until my eyes no longer see.

I know in time you will agree
It is a kindness you do to me.
Although my tail its last has waved,
From pain and suffering I have been saved.
Don't grieve that it must be you
Who has to decide this thing to do;
We've been so close — we two — these years,
Don't let your heart hold any tears.

— Unknown

Remembering Lily: 2005-2019

We said good-bye to our sweet Lily this morning. We adopted Lily and her brother Sweet William from our friend Glen after his wife died in 2005. Lily always marched to a different drummer. For long periods of time she would spend her time in solitude.  Ohter times she would be close to us and the other pets. 

When they were younger they loved being close to each other.

She always watched her back!

The greenhouse at Martin Creek was her favorite place to hang out.

She was a beautiful cat.

She lived the good life. She loved to hang out outdoors when she was younger. I never knew where I might find her. She had a shelf in the garage, a spot on the woodpile, and a chair in the gazebo she loved, We are all in mourning today at our house.

“When the cat you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure.” – Unknown

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: Always William Stafford

I always include at least one poem by William Stafford during National Poetry Month. This in one of his poems that I wasn't as familiar with, but it is timely. Today I am thinking about the thread that has guided me through life. It has woven through events large and small, happy times, and sad times.  The important message in this poem is to never let go of that thread. Today, I am hanging on tight to my thread.

THE WAY IT IS

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

—William Stafford 

The Shed Notebook: Palm Sunday: "All Glory, Laud, and Honor"

This hymn always speaks to me on Palm Sunday.

All Glory, Laud, and Honor

Refrain:
All glory, laud, and honor,
to thee, Redeemer, King,
to whom the lips of children
made sweet hosannas ring.

1. Thou art the King of Israel,
thou David's royal Son,
who in the Lord's name comest,
the King and Blessed One.
(Refrain)

2. The company of angels
are praising thee on high,
and we with all creation
in chorus make reply.
(Refrain)

3. The people of the Hebrews
with psalms before thee went;
our prayer and praise and anthems
before thee we present.
(Refrain)

4. To thee, before thy passion,
they sang their hymns of praise;
to thee, now high exalted,
our melody we raise.
(Refrain)

5. Thou didst accept their praises;
accept the prayers we bring,
who in all good delightest,
thou good and gracious King.
(Refrain)

The United Methodist Hymnal Number 280
Text: Theodulph of Orleans; trans. by John Mason Neale
Music: Melchior Teschner; harm. by W.H. Monk
Tune: ST. THEODULPH, Meter: 76.76 D

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: "What Belongs to Us"

• 

  I attended a literacy workshop about ten years ago and the presenter shared another poem by Marie Howe. Since then I have read many of her poems. They deal with the ordinary things of life we remember during not so ordinary events we experience.

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Week: Honoring My Brother

Yestesday was National Sibling Day and I honored my sister with a poem. Today I will honor my brother. There were many times we sat side by side reading a book. My brother taught me how to read. I think we must have read  The Cat in the Hat together fifty times. We are still moving through "the ten thousand acts that will encumber the rest of our days." I am pleased I will enjoy those acts with him as my next door neighbor and won't have to travel far when "another laughter sounds back."

Two Set Out on Their Journey
by Galway Kinnell

We sit side by side,
brother and sister, and read
the book of what will be, while a breeze
blows the pages over—
desolate odd, cheerful even,
and otherwise. When we come
to our own story, the happy beginning,
the ending we don’t know yet,
the ten thousand acts
encumbering the days between,
we will read every page of it.
If an ancestor has pressed
a love-flower for us, it will lie hidden
between pages of the slow going,
where only those who adore the story
ever read. When the time comes
to shut the book and set out,
we will take childhood’s laughter
as far as we can into the days to come,
until another laughter sounds back
from the place where our next bodies
will have risen and will be telling
tales of what seemed deadly serious once,
offering to us oldening wayfarers
the light heart, now made of time
and sorrow, that we started with.

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: " My Sister, My Friend"

Today is National Sibling Day. First I want to honor my sister with a poem. Tomorrow I will honor my brother. I am blessed beyond words to have two siblings that live close, stay in touch, and are always there for me. 

My Sister, My Friend

© Leann Stiegman

Published: February 2006

To me you are an angel in disguise.
Full of intuition, you are intelligent and wise.
Always giving and helping through good times and bad.
You are the best friend I've ever had.
If I had one wish, it would surely be
To give you as much as you've given to me.
Though I've put our relationship through some cloudy days,
You've been my sunshine in so many ways.
Through trials and tests, right by me you stood,
And you gave me your hand whenever you could.
Thank you so much, my sister, my friend.
My gratitude for you has no end.

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/my-sister-and-my-friend

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: " A Single Photograph"

I came across this untitled poem about six years ago. I loved the line "portrait of the moment". The photo above is one that made me thankful I had a camera with me at the time. This is an image of the inside of the Mission of the Sacred Heart, or Cataldo Mission, a historical landmark in Cataldo, Idaho.


A single photograph

—portrait of the moment—
is an inexhaustible epic,
a living tale beyond words
superior to a hundred volumes
written and fixed. 

A photograph
is consciousness painting,
the instant’s art that opens
on the unbounded vistas
of the inner life. 


-Daisaku Ikeda

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: "One Art"

I think many of us have mastered the art of losing things. I just lost my phone again an hour ago. Of course, it was right where I left it! What is it you always lose?

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. --Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.   by Elizabeth Bishop

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: "Driving Montana"

Tomorrow I will be driving Montana. I am not driving across the whole state, but will see beautiful landscapes in the western part of the state. When I think of poems about Montana, I think of Richard Hugo. This is one that captures Monday on the road.

Driving Montana

The day is a woman who loves you.  Open.
Deer drink close to the road and magpies
spray from your car.  Miles from any town
your radio comes in strong, unlikely
Mozart from Belgrade rock and roll
from Butte.  Whatever the next number
you want to hear it.  Never has your Buick
found this forward a gear.  Even
the tuna salad in Reedpoint is good.

Towns arrive ahead of imagined schedule
Absorakee at one.  Or arrive so late--
Silesia at nine--you recreate the day.
Where did you stop along the road
and have fun?  Was there a runaway horse?
Did you park at that house, the one
alone in a void of grain, white with green
trim and red fence, where you know you lived
once?  You remembered the ringing creek,
the soft brown forms of far off bison.
You must have stayed hours, then drove on.
In the motel you know you’d never seen it before.

Tomorrow will open again, the sky wide
as the mouth of a wild girl, friable
clouds you lose yourself to.  You are lost
in miles of land without people, without
one fear of being found, in the dash
of rabbits, soar of antelope, swirl
merge and clatter of streams. 
                                    --Richard Hugo 

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: "An Observation"

An Observation 

True gardeners cannot bear a glove
Between the sure touch and the tender root,
Must let their hands grow knotted as they move
With a rough sensitivity about
Under the earth, between the rock and shoot,
Never to bruise or wound the hidden fruit.
And so I watched my mother's hands grow scarred,
She who could heal the wounded plant or friend
With the same vulnerable yet rigorous love;
I minded once to see her beauty gnarled,
But now her truth is given me to live,
As I learn for myself we must be hard
To move among the tender with an open hand,
And to stay sensitive up to the end
Pay with some toughness for a gentle world.

May Sarton

I have always had a collection of gardening gloves close, but I too find it hard to use them. I want to feel those plants with my fingers. My mom was better at wearing gloves, but she still had hands that showed toughness and hard work.  Her hands also had a gentle touch. My hands are the same.

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: "A Friend Is A Treasure"

Today I want to honor my friends with this poem. I am blessed with old friends, new friends, family that are friends, work friends, and neighbor friends. When I need a friend, someone is always there. 

A Friend is a Treasure

by Jean Kyler McManus

A friend is someone we turn to,
When our spirits need a lift,
A friend is someone we treasure,
For true friendship is a gift.

A friend is someone we laugh with,
Over little personal things,
A friend is someone we're serious with,
In facing whatever life brings.

A friend is someone who fills our lives,
With beauty and joy and grace.
And makes the world that we live in
A better and happier place!

The Shed Notebook: National Poetry Month: "Kindness"

 

 I can't celebrate National Poetry Month without posting this poem. Each time I read it, it speaks to me in yet another way.  The line I love this time is  "Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore"  Kindness makes sense to me.  How does it speak to you? 

Kindness

by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

From Words Under the Words: Selected Poems. Copyright © 1995 by Naomi Shihab Nye.