Exclusion

It’s a relief to drift past lovely things that exclude me.

It would take a machete to open hedges of flaming xora,

a bolt cutter to reach jasmine, blindness to miss red flags,

though the ocean looks open, smoky blue, and gorgeous;

and vanity to intrude on neighbors, who stand face to face

near the door of our building, blessedly unaware of me,

one speaking, the other stricken with sympathy.

- Miriam Levine (first published @ On the Seawall)

A Sparrow Hawk in the Suburbs

At that time of year there is a turn in the road where
the hermit tones and meadow colours of
two seasons heal into
one another—

 when the wild ladder of a winter scarf is stored away in
a drawer eased by candle-grease and lemon balm
is shaken out from
the linen press.

 Those are afternoons when the Dublin hills are so close,
so mauve and blue, we can be certain dark
will bring rain and
it does to

 the borrowed shears and the love-seat in the garden where
a sparrow hawk was seen through the opal-
white of apple trees
after Easter. And

 I want to know how it happened that those days of
bloom when
rumours of wings and sightings—always seen by
someone else, somewhere else—
filled the air,

 together with a citrus drizzle of petals and clematis
opening,
and shadows waiting on a gradual lengthening
in the light our children
stayed up

later by, over pages of wolves and dragons and learned to
measure the sanctuary of darkness by a small
danger—how and why
they have chilled

into these April nights I lie awake listening for wings I
will
never see above the cold frames and
last frosts of our
back gardens.

- Eavan Boland

From George Borrow's "Lavengro"

"What is your opinion of death, Mr Petulengro?" said I.

"My opinion of death, brother . . . is when a man dies, he is cast into the earth . . . and there is an end of the matter."

"And do you think that is the end of man?"

"There's an end to him, brother, more's the pity."

"Why do you say so?"

"Life is sweet, brother."

"Do you think so?"

"Think so! There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind in the heath. Life is very sweet, brother, who would wish to die?"

"I would wish to die . . ."

"You talk like a gorgio - which is the same thing as talking like a fool - were you a Romany Chal you would talk wiser. Wish to die, indeed, A Romany Chal would wish to live for ever."

"In sickness, Jasper?"

"There's the sun and stars, brother."

"In blindness, Jasper?"

"There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that, I would gladly live for ever . . .”

Things

What happened is, we grew lonely
living among the things,
so we gave the clock a face,
the chair a back,
the table four stout legs
which will never suffer fatigue.

We fitted our shoes with tongues
as smooth as our own
and hung tongues inside bells
so we could listen
to their emotional language,

and because we loved graceful profiles
the pitcher received a lip,
the bottle a long, slender neck.

Even what was beyond us
was recast in our image;
we gave the country a heart,
the storm an eye,
the cave a mouth
so we could pass into safety.

- Lisel Mueller

From Hebrews

“But without faith it is impossible to please him; for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of of them that diligently seek him.

By faith Noah, being warned of God of things not seen as yet, moved with fear, prepared an ark to the saving of his house; by the which he condemned the world, and became heir of the righteousness which is by faith.

By faith Abraham, when he was called to go out into a place which he should after receive for an inheritance, obeyed; and he went out, not knowing whither he went.

By faith he sojourned in the land of promise, as in a strange country, dwelling in tabernacles with Isaac and Jacob, the heirs with him of the same promise:

For he looked for a city which hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God.

Through faith also Sara herself received strength to conceive seed, and was delivered of a child when she was past age, because she judged him faithful who had promised.

Therefore sprang there even of one, and him as good as dead, so many as the stars of the sky in multitude, and as the sand which is by the sea shore innumerable.

These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth.”

- Hebrews 11:6-13

The Life

Murdered, I went, risen,
Where the murderers are,
That black ditch
Of river.

And if I come back to my only country
With a white rose on my shoulder,
What is that to you?
It is the grave
in blossom.

It is the trillium of darkness,
It is hell, it is the beginning of winter,
It is a ghost town of Etruscans
Who have no names
Any more.

It is the old loneliness.
It is.
And it is
The last time.

- James Wright

From Paul's letter to Timothy

“Perverse disputings of men of corrupt minds, and destitute of the truth, supposing that gain is godliness: from such withdraw thyself.

But godliness with contentment is great gain.

For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.

And having food and raiment let us be therefore with content.”

- I Timothy, 5:5 - 5:8

The Sound of Trees

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.

- Robert Frost

The Oven Bird

There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again. 
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten. 
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall. 
He says the highway dust is over all. 
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing. 
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing. 

- Robert Frost