​Assume it’s in the kitchen,
under the couch, high
in the pine tree out back,
behind the paint cans
in the garage. Don’t try
proving your love
is bigger than the Grand
Canyon, the Milky Way,
the urban sprawl of L.A.
Take it for granted. Take it
out with the garbage. Bring
it in with the takeout. Take
it for a walk with the dog.
Wake it every day, say,
“Good morning.” Then
make the coffee. Warm
the cups. Don’t expect much
of the day. Be glad when
you make it back to bed.
Be glad he threw out that
box of old hats. Be glad
she leaves her shoes
in the hall. Snow will
come. Spring will show up.
Summer will be humid.
The leaves will fall
in the fall. That’s more
than you need. We can
love anybody, even
everybody. But you
can love the silence,
sighing and saying to
yourself, “That’s her.”
“That’s him.” Then to
each other, “I know!
Let’s go out for breakfast!”

​    - Jack Ridl

​The Calling

In third grade I kept raising my hand
desperate to be called on
even though I had no idea what

the answer to the question was.
I only knew that to be called on
was the best thing. And isn't that still

the best thing--to be called on?
And all the days of uncertainty
and the lonely nights, the ends

of all the ropes, the whole house
of cards collapsed, now become
an answer to any question

that life conceives--like how the purpling
of dusk lingers between branches
after the sun sets, or whether it's better

to sit on the soil or eat warm, crusted
bread. How lucky to be chosen to answer
for the chickadees who stay all winter,

the daffodils that bloom too early, or a gull
tattered on the shore, wings half-buried in sand
each of us a grain, hands held high,

called on to notice it all, and answer.


Speaking in Tongues

It's funny what you don't have
to worry about--last night, after
a few warm Spring weeks,
the mercury fell to the 40s,
but today the corn shoots
poked their rolled green tongues
out of the garden soil. And while
the dryer we bought was a lemon
and in principle a ripoff, it still
works well enough. Which is
to say that, while my small
reactive and conditioned self is still,
more often than not, in the way,
the love that is living me and you
and the corn and the dryer--
the whole mercurial mystery
of it all--is already there, just
waiting to poke through the cold,
the unjust, the broken-down
garden soil of us with its playful,
green, giving and forgiving tongue.


Sky Writing

The wind dictates a memo,
fleet and legible, brailled
on the surface of the pond,
read by lilies and water shield,
telegraphed through stem, root, mud,
into the dreams of a turtle.

The message is clear and a little forlorn--
don't forget me, dear--I miss
the way we touched, moist and close
in summer. The pond itself is never lonely,
shows its moods skin to sky, sequined
in sunlit shadows, its depths unsecret,

transparent, receptive to a fault.
Whatever stirs the mud--turtles
reborn to spring, worms that burrow--
the pond takes note, allows, embraces,
the way the eye holds the world,
the way you might love your enemy.


Death Was Gentle

I asked Death to be gentle and she was,
knowing how terrified I'd been of her.
She took me to the soil, the bright womb where
all life is born from dun decay and rust.

And then I knew the one I'd feared was Earth,
whose every fold and wrinkle I adored.,
whose creatures were all siblings of my birth
whose beauty fed me still as through a birth-cord.

And so, to have been made of Death herself,
to sojourn on my mother, as matter--
nature, with no need to be another--
rock returned to beautiful rock in death,

from one whose terror told him not to be,
now I'm at home in life, myself, and free.

​    - Chuck Madansky

​as a boy
i heard the muses
Calliope and Melpomene
whispering
their voices bubbling up
from the thick
burgundy carpet
in my grandfather’s
living room

we told Homeric tales
with plastic figurines
exploring caverns
beneath an oak end-table
the darkness
beneath the sofa
was an unknowable
otherworld
beside which we waged wars
with marbles
and matchbox cars

that small temple
of burgundy and oak
is lost to me now
yet in quiet moments
of forgetting myself
i still feel
my muses near
silently brushing my cheek
like scarves of raw silk
reminding me
to awaken back
into more innocent ways
of understanding

and so
under a cool
spring moon
i press my ear
to the earth
soft and yielding
after a generous April rain
and listen
to remember
​
    - Dimitri Papadopoulos​

Because after the snow and the rain
the redwing blackbird trills in the cattails
and the song of the inner life is born again.
And from out of our dark caves
we stumble and call to each other
wondering what has been transformed
in the winter months and who will now emerge.
We are like bears bounding
out of the mountain, slightly bewildered
blinking in the bright new light,
ravenous for the world.

​This is eros unleashed​--
the seduction of apple blossoms--
petals raining on wet fertile earth,
hummingbirds unzipping the cerulean sky,
the glint of streamflow and bare skin.
How the full moon pours Maylight
upon our upturned faces,
and the breezes carry the scent of longing
and melancholy, lilac and the spice
of all that is greening.

We have died a thousand times
and been reborn for this.
To lie back, even for a moment,
into the arms of the world--
to meet eros in every turn--
to be courted by you who stirs
the inner waters and tears apart
the old husks. Yes, you
who makes us want to eat fire
and lay down in every meadow.

We have been waiting for your arrival
and now you are here,
no longer a Stranger, but a Storm--
you, who strikes the bell of awakening,
so the whole body rings out
with Delight.

​    - Laura Weaver

​Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

​    - Margaret Atwood

​Earth, isn’t this what you want? To arise in us, invisible?
Is it not your dream, to enter us so wholly
there’s nothing left outside us to see?
What, if not transformation
is your deepest purpose? Earth, my love,
I want it too. Believe me,
no more of your springtimes are needed
to win me over—even one flower
is more than enough. Before I was named
I belonged to you. I see no other law
but yours, and know I can trust
the death you will bring.
​
See, I live. On what?
Childhood and future are equally present.
Sheer abundance of being
floods my heart.
​
    - Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Ninth Duino Elegy
translation by Anita Burrows and Joanna Macy

******************************

Earth, isn't this what you want: invisibly
to arise in us? Is it not your dream
to be some day invisible? Earth! Invisible!
What, if not transformation, is your insistent commission?
Earth, dear one, I will! Oh, believe it needs
not one more of your springtimes to win me over.
One, just one, is already too much for my blood.
From afar I'm utterly determined to be yours.
You were always right and your sacred revelation is the intimate death.

Behold, I'm alive. On what? Neither childhood nor future
grows less...surplus of existence
is welling up in my heart.

    - Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Ninth Duino Elegy
translation by C. F. MacIntyre

******************************

Earth, isn’t this what you want: to arise within us,
invisible? Isn’t it your dream
to be wholly invisible someday? –O Earth: invisible
What, if not transformation, is your urgent command?
Earth, my dearest, I will. Oh believe me, you no longer
need your springtimes to win me over – one of them,
ah, even one, is already too much for my blood.
Unspeakably I have belonged to you, from the first.
You were always right, and your holiest inspiration
is our intimate companion, Death.  

Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future
grows any smaller… Superabundant being
wells up in my heart.

     - Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Ninth Duino Elegy
​translation by Stephen Mitchell

Let's be clear about this:
It isn't the same as being sick
and getting better. It isn't 
changing your mind at the last minute
or pushing away from the brink.
The only way to be born again
is to die. The Phoenix doesn't just
go up in a blaze of glory. It
feels the fire lick up and sizzle
every feather, until each quill becomes
a column of flame carried straight to the core.
Whatever the legend of re-birth, there is always
time in the fire, under the ground,
hanging on the cross or the tree.
Don't skip over that part of the story.
If you would be reborn, you have to die.
But what then? After the dying
how are we to rise again into new life?
The earth, the hero, the god, you and I--
how does any of us find our way back
from the Valley of the Shadow?
The same way we die:
Walk into the light.

​    - Lynn Ungar

​The door swings open,
you look in.
It’s dark in there,
most likely spiders:
nothing you want.
You feel scared.
The door swings closed. 

The full moon shines,
it’s full of delicious juice;
you buy a purse,
the dance is nice.
The door opens
And swings closed so quickly
you don’t notice.

The sun comes out,
you have swift breakfasts
with your husband, who is still thin;
you wash the dishes,
you love your children,
you read a book,
you go to the movies.
It rains moderately. 

The door swings open,
you look in:
why does this keep happening now?
Is there a secret?
The door swings closed. 

The snow falls,
you clear the walk while breathing heavily;
it’s not as easy as once.
Your children telephone sometimes.
The roof needs fixing.
You keep yourself busy.
The spring arrives.

The door swings open:
it’s dark in there,
with many steps going down.
But what is that shining?
Is it water?
The door swings closed.

The dog has died.
This happened before.
You got another; not this time though.
Where is your husband?
You gave up the garden.
It became too much.
At night there are blankets;
nonetheless you are wakeful.

The door swings open:
O god of hinges,
god of long voyages,
you have kept faith.
It’s dark in there.
You confide yourself to the darkness
You step in.
The door swings closed.

​    - Margaret Atwood