Wild Words: Ferociously Nourishing Poetry

On the Other Side, for Equinox

9/17/2023

Grass Cocoon
Grass sculpture and photo by Jeanne K. Simmons

Through the looking glass,
down the rabbit hole,
into the wardrobe and out
into the enchanted forest
where animals talk
and danger lurks and nothing
works quite the way it did before,
you have fallen into a new story.
It is possible that you
are much bigger—or smaller--
than you thought.
It is possible to drown
in the ocean of your own tears.
It is possible that mysterious friends
have armed you with magical weapons
you don’t yet understand,
but which you will need
to save your own life and the world.
Everything here is foreign.
Nothing quite makes sense.
That’s how it works.
Do not confuse the beginning
of the story with the end.

- Lynn Ungar

Yes, We Can Talk

9/3/2023

Photo by Yura Tsipak

Having loved enough and lost enough,
I am no longer searching,
just opening,

no longer trying to make sense of pain,
but trying to be a soft and sturdy home
in which real things can land.

These are the irritations
that rub into a pearl.

So we can talk awhile
but then we must listen,
the way rocks listen to the sea.

And we can churn at all that goes wrong
but then we must lay all distractions
down, and water every living seed.

And yes, on nights like tonight
I too feel alone, but seldom do I
face it squarely enough
to see that it's a door
into the endless breath
that has no breather,
into the surf that human shells
call god.

- Mark Nepo

Not A One

8/27/2023

Xochi in the Cave of Infinite Possibilities
Teotihuacan, Mexico
Photo by Victor Javier Hernandez Romero

A funny thing happened on my way
to being awake. I outgrew all my masks.
Not a one fit. Not the one I called my
past. Not the one I called my dream.
Not the one I wore when sad. Or the
one I wore when trying to be happy.

I saved them all like favorite shirts
I thought would fit when I became
myself again. But that was a mask, too.

Then, just the other day, I was more
present than lost, and had to put down
the mask I called my story.

And today, a gust of light filled my face.
I felt it on my skin and in my soul.
Now, anything is possible.

- Mark Nepo

The Poet With His Face in His Hands

8/20/2023

You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need any more of that sound.

So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you

want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.

- Mary Oliver

Aimless Love

7/30/2023

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

- Billy Collins

How the Light Comes

6/25/2023

I cannot tell you
how the light comes.

What I know
is that it is more ancient
than imagining.
That it travels
across an astounding expanse
to reach us.
That it loves
searching out
what is hidden,
what is lost,
what is forgotten
or in peril
or in pain.

That it has a fondness
for the body,
for finding its way
toward flesh,
for tracing the edges
of form,
for shining forth
through the eye,
the hand,
the heart.

I cannot tell you
how the light comes,
but that it does.
That it will.
That it works its way
into the deepest dark
that enfolds you,
though it may seem
long ages in coming
or arrive in a shape
you did not foresee.

And so
may we this day
turn ourselves toward it.
May we lift our faces
to let it find us.
May we bend our bodies
to follow the arc it makes.
May we open
and open more
and open still

to the blessed light
that comes.

- Jan Richardson

I Went Out to Hear

5/7/2023

I Went Out to Hear

The sound of quiet. The sky
indigo, steeping
deeper from the top, like tea.
In the absence
of anything else, my own
breathing became obscene.
I heard the beating
of bats' wings before
the air troubled above
my head, turned to look
and saw them gone.
On the surface of the black
lake, a swan and the moon
stayed perfectly
still. I knew this was
a perfect moment.
Which would only hurt me
to remember and never
live again. My God.
How lucky to have lived
a life I would die for.

- Leila Chatti

The Stolen Child

4/16/2023

The Coming Mythos by Michael Zieve
www.artworkarchive.com/profile/michael-zieve

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

- William Butler Yeats

Lie Around and Get Zonked Out

4/9/2023

Blessing Tree by Michael Zieve
www.artworkarchive.com/profile/michael-zieve

If we were smarter, it would have been enough
that just one great Prophet would have to make
a personal appearance on earth.

He or She probably could have easily fixed some
important things forever, written a book that
really gave us the total lowdown...and that no
right-wing fanatic dare edit.

God in human form, as some called the Avatar--
or World Teacher--seemingly could have easily
shown us some tasty herb cocktails

that could cure any illness humans would ever
know. But looks like it does not work that way.

And what of us mules who like the harness? What
would the workhorses in this world do without
some imaginary cause--or situation--we felt
needed to be championed, or scotch-taped?

Heaven forbid, everyone might become happy
doing basically nothing

except to lie around and get zonked out on the
wonder of our being.

- Hafiz, trans. by Daniel Ladinsky

Wild Tenderness

4/2/2023

In a Dark Wood by Michael Zieve
www.artworkarchive.com/profile/michael-zieve

There is a place in my heart
When I sink down and in
Where I am surprised to discover
I am already whole
My mind is suspicious
Yet it is undeniably true

There is a place in my heart
When I sink down and in
Where I discover my problems
Are not actually problems
But places of wild tenderness
Where I find myself again

When I sink down and in
When I slow down inside
When I trust enough
To melt

I find
I am only ever meeting
Myself

And this meeting
Is the truth
It is the secret desire
Inside all desires:

All I ever really wanted
Was me

- Maya Luna

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