To the Sea by Anis Mojgani

Sometimes when you start to ramble
or rather when you feel you are starting to ramble
you will say Well, now I’m rambling​
though I don’t think you ever are.
And if you ever are I don’t really care.
And not just because I and everyone really
at times falls into our own unspooling
—which really I think is a beautiful softness
of being human, trying to show someone else
the color of all our threads, wanting another to know
everything in us we are trying to show them—
but in the specific,
in the specific of you
here in this car that you are driving
and in which I am sitting beside you
with regards to you
and your specific mouth
parting to give way
to the specific sweetness that is
the water of your voice
tumbling forth—like I said
I don’t ever really mind
how much more
you might keep speaking
as it simply means
I get to hear you
speak for longer.
What was a stream
now a river.

Let July by July by Morgan Harper Nichols

Let July be July. Let August be August.
and let yourself just be, even in the uncertainty.
You don't have to fix everything.
You don't have to solve everything.
And you can still find peace
and grow
in the wild
of changing things.

Don’t Worry by Anna Kamienska

Don’t worry there’ll still be a lot of suffering
For now you have the right to cling to the sleeve
of someone’s blunt friendship
To be happy is a duty which you neglect
A careless user of time
you send days like geese to the meadow
Don’t worry you’ll die many times
Until you learn at the very end to love life

(From Astonishments by Anna Kamienska)

The Storm by Richard Jones

I called my father long-distance last night

to let him know how we’re doing —

Andrew feeling much better, the baby kicking,

me taking a turn with the flu, feeling like

I’m inside a glass bubble. My father patiently

waited for me to finish what I was saying,

then eagerly told me about the terrible

thunderstorm, asking if I could hear

the rain beating down. Suddenly

neither of us was talking,

I stood with the phone to my ear,

listening to drumming on the skylight

in my father’s kitchen, picturing an old man

holding the receiver up to the thunder and darkness

What I Didn’t Know Before

was how horses simply give birth to other
horses. Not a baby by any means, not
a creature of liminal spaces, but already
a four-legged beast hellbent on walking,
scrambling after the mother. A horse gives way
to another horse and then suddenly there are
two horses, just like that. That’s how I loved you.
You, off the long train from Red Bank carrying
a coffee as big as your arm, a bag with two
computers swinging in it unwieldily at your
side. I remember we broke into laughter
when we saw each other. What was between
us wasn’t a fragile thing to be coddled, cooed
over. It came out fully formed, ready to run.

From: The Carrying by Ada Limón

Excerpt from The Fourth Sign of The Zodiac by Mary Oliver

I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you’re in it all the same.
​
So why not get started immediately.
​
I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.
​
And to write music or poems about.
​
Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.
​
You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be as urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.

Don’t Hesitate by Mary Oliver

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case.
Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

I Have to Tell You by Dorothea Grossman

I have to tell you,
there are times when
the sun strikes me
like a gong,
and I remember everything,
even your ears.

To the Woman Crying Uncontrollably in the Next Stall by Kim Addonizio

If you ever woke in your dress at 4am ever
closed your legs to someone you loved opened
them for someone you didn’t moved against
a pillow in the dark stood miserably on a beach
seaweed clinging to your ankles paid
good money for a bad haircut backed away
from a mirror that wanted to kill you bled
into the back seat for lack of a tampon
if you swam across a river under rain sang
using a dildo for a microphone stayed up
to watch the moon eat the sun entire
ripped out the stitches in your heart
because why not if you think nothing &
no one can / listen I love you joy is coming

Love After Love by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
​
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
​
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
​
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Your Forces and How to Use Them by ​ Christian D. Larson

Promise Yourself
​
To be so strong that nothing
can disturb your peace of mind.
To talk health, happiness, and prosperity
to every person you meet.
​
To make all your friends feel
that there is something in them
To look at the sunny side of everything
and make your optimism come true.
​
To think only the best, to work only for the best,
and to expect only the best.
To be just as enthusiastic about the success of others
as you are about your own.
​
To forget the mistakes of the past
and press on to the greater achievements of the future.
To wear a cheerful countenance at all times
and give every living creature you meet a smile.
​
To give so much time to the improvement of yourself
that you have no time to criticize others.
To be too large for worry, too noble for anger, too strong for fear,
and too happy to permit the presence of trouble.
​
To think well of yourself and to proclaim this fact to the world,
not in loud words but great deeds.
To live in faith that the whole world is on your side
so long as you are true to the best that is in you.

Good Bones by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

If I Had Three Lives by Sarah Russell

If I had three lives, I’d marry you in two.
The other? Perhaps that life over there
at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing — a memoir,
maybe a novel or this poem. No kids, probably,
a small apartment with a view of the river,
and books — lots of books, and time to read.
Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes,
for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like
when it’s alive. I’d be thinner in that life, vegan,
practice yoga. I’d go to art films, farmers markets,
drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry.
I’d vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt
weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat
and aftershave more than I did him. I’d walk the beach
at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks
water makes in sand. And I’d wonder sometimes
if I’d ever find you.

-

Note from the poet: It’s tempting to think about the road not taken. But for me, it always leads back to the man I love and married many years ago.

It Ends or It Doesn't by Caitlyn Siehl

It ends or it doesn't.
That’s what you say. That’s
how you get through it.
The tunnel, the night,
the pain, the love.
It ends or it doesn't.
If the sun never comes up,
you find a way to live
without it.
If they don’t come back,
you sleep in the middle of the bed,
learn how to make enough coffee
for yourself alone.
​
Adapt. Adjust.
It ends or it doesn't.
It ends or it doesn't.
We do not perish.

I Went Out to Hear by Leila Chatti

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.

About the poem: “While at Annaghmakerrig, an artist’s residency in Ireland, a novelist I had become friends with encouraged me to stop working like ‘an American’ and leave my room sometimes. One night, he came and told me there were bats out by the lake which I should go and see immediately. As dusk was coming down, I was struck by the enormity of the silence, a quiet I have never since heard. The moment was lovely and so easily missed, like most miracles. Beauty everywhere, and it’s so brief, so absolute, it fills me with a tenderness that is, at times, unbearable—this miracle of living for a little while to see it.”

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.

My Death by Raymond Carter

If I’m lucky, I’ll be wired every whichway
in a hospital bed. Tubes running into
my nose. But try not to be scared of me, friends!
I’m telling you right now that this is okay.
It’s little enough to ask for at the end.
Someone, I hope, will have phoned everyone
to say, “Come quick, he’s failing!”
And they will come. And there will be time for me
to bid goodbye to each of my loved ones.
If I’m lucky, they’ll step forward
and I’ll be able to see them one last time
and take that memory with me.
Sure, they might lay eyes on me and want to run away
and howl. But instead, since they love me,
they’ll lift my hand and say “Courage”
or “It’s going to be all right.”
And they’re right. It is all right.
It’s just fine. If you only knew how happy you’ve made me!
I just hope my luck holds, and I can make
some sign of recognition.
Open and close my eyes as if to say,
“Yes, I hear you. I understand you.”
I may even manage something like this:
“I love you too. Be happy.”
I hope so! But I don’t want to ask for too much.
If I’m unlucky, as I deserve, well, I’ll just
drop over, like that, without any chance
for farewell, or to press anyone’s hand.
Or say how much I cared for you and enjoyed
your company all these years. In any case,
try not to mourn for me too much. I want you to know
I was happy when I was here.
And remember I told you this a while ago – April 1984.
But be glad for me if I can die in the presence
of friends and family. If this happens, believe me,
I came out ahead. I didn’t lose this one.

--

Raymond Carver was a poet and short-story writer most famously known for What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. Carver died of lung cancer at age 50, four years after writing My Death.

Two-Headed Calf by Laura Gilpin

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.

New Year by Kate Baer

Look at it, cold and wet like a newborn
calf. I want to tell it everything—how we
struggled, how we tore out our hair and
thumbed through rusted nails just to
stand for its birth. I want to say: look how
far we’ve come. Promise our resolutions.

But what does a baby care for oaths and
pledges? It only wants to live.

To Begin With, The Sweet Grass by Mary Oliver

I.
Will the hungry ox stand in the field and not eat
of the sweet grass?
Will the owl bite off its own wings?
Will the lark forget to lift its body in the air or
forget to sing?
Will the rivers run upstream?

Behold, I say—behold
the reliability and the finery and the teachings
of this gritty earth gift.

II.
Eat bread and understand comfort.
Drink water, and understand delight.
Visit the garden where the scarlet trumpets
are opening their bodies for the hummingbirds
who are drinking the sweetness, who are
thrillingly gluttonous.

For one thing leads to another.
Soon you will notice how stones shine underfoot.
Eventually tides will be the only calendar you believe in.

And someone’s face, whom you love, will be as a star
both intimate and ultimate,
and you will be both heart-shaken and respectful.

And you will hear the air itself, like a beloved, whisper:
oh, let me, for a while longer, enter the two
beautiful bodies of your lungs.

III.
The witchery of living
is my whole conversation
with you, my darlings.
All I can tell you is what I know.

Look, and look again.
This world is not just a little thrill for the eyes.

It’s more than bones.
It’s more than the delicate wrist with its personal pulse.
It’s more than the beating of the single heart.
It’s praising.
It’s giving until the giving feels like receiving.
You have a life—just imagine that!
You have this day, and maybe another, and maybe
still another.

IV.
Someday I am going to ask my friend Paulus,
the dancer, the potter,
to make me a begging bowl
which I believe
my soul needs.

And if I come to you,
to the door of your comfortable house
with unwashed clothes and unclean fingernails,
will you put something into it?

I would like to take this chance.
I would like to give you this chance.

V.
We do one thing or another; we stay the same, or we
change.
Congratulations, if
you have changed.

VI.
Let me ask you this.
Do you also think that beauty exists for some
fabulous reason?

And, if you have not been enchanted by this adventure—
your life—
what would do for you?

VII.
What I loved in the beginning, I think, was mostly myself.
Never mind that I had to, since somebody had to.
That was many years ago.
Since then I have gone out from my confinements,
though with difficulty.
I mean the ones that thought to rule my heart.
I cast them out, I put them on the mush pile.
They will be nourishment somehow (everything is nourishment
somehow or another).

And I have become the child of the clouds, and of hope.
I have become the friend of the enemy, whoever that is.
I have become older and, cherishing what I have learned,
I have become younger.

And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know?
Love yourself.  Then forget it.  Then, love the world.