Come Sleep! O Sleep, the Certain Knot of Peace by Sir Philip Sidney

With shield of proof shield me from out the press 

Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw: 

O make in me those civil wars to cease; 

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 

A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 

A rosy garland and a weary head: 

And if these things, as being thine by right, 

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

Free Will by Jessica Jacobs

Free will 

is in our hands: in these bones lashed

by ligaments, sheathed 

in skin. Flex your fingers wide, like folding fans,

collapse them in. Muscleless puppets, 

they are merciless or tender depending

on what moves them. We can train 

a single finger to hold a body's weight; all ten

together, to summon a sonata, birth a baby, ball 

into clubs and beat a man to death. We tatters

of lace and crafters of skyscrapers

are the only animals who can make a fist.

How much simpler if our bodies' weapons

were separate, obvious as antlers. Yet,

the Talmud speaks of yetzer hara,

our evil inclination, as the source

of all creativity and desire— the same urge a spur 

to make love and take someone

without consent, for righteous anger 

and violent rage. Like the rabbis, some states

define a deadly weapon only 

after the fact, by the damage

a thing caused. Like a break is both

an opportunity and a fracture; cleave,

to hold fast and split apart,

our hands--these broken hymns

of contronym

capable of such cruelty,

and also grace, hard chosen.  

from Agamemnon by Aeschylus

And, truly, what of good

ever have prophets brought to men?

Craft of many words,

      only through

evil your message speaks.

     Seers bring aye

terror, so to keep

    men afraid.  

In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa by Ada Limón

 

Arching under the night sky inky
with black expansiveness, we point
to the planets we know, we

pin quick wishes on stars. From earth,
we read the sky as if it is an unerring book
of the universe, expert and evident.

Still, there are mysteries below our sky:
the whale song, the songbird singing
its call in the bough of a wind-shaken tree.

We are creatures of constant awe,
curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom,
at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow.

And it is not darkness that unites us,
not the cold distance of space, but
the offering of water, each drop of rain,

each rivulet, each pulse, each vein.
O second moon, we, too, are made
of water, of vast and beckoning seas.

We, too, are made of wonders, of great
and ordinary loves, of small invisible worlds,
of a need to call out through the dark.

“Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, on Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798" - William Wordsworth

Five years have past; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs

With a soft inland murmur.—Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

That on a wild secluded scene impress

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

The day is come when I again repose

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves

'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines

Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!

With some uncertain notice, as might seem

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,

Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire

The Hermit sits alone.

                                              These beauteous forms,

Through a long absence, have not been to me

As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:

But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;

And passing even into my purer mind

With tranquil restoration:—feelings too

Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

As have no slight or trivial influence

On that best portion of a good man's life,

His little, nameless, unremembered, acts

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,

To them I may have owed another gift,

Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,

In which the burthen of the mystery,

In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world,

Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood,

In which the affections gently lead us on,—

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame

And even the motion of our human blood

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

In body, and become a living soul:

While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things.

                                                        If this

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—

In darkness and amid the many shapes

Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir

Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,

Have hung upon the beatings of my heart—

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,

O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,

         How often has my spirit turned to thee!

   And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint,

And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

The picture of the mind revives again:

While here I stand, not only with the sense

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts

That in this moment there is life and food

For future years. And so I dare to hope,

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first

I came among these hills; when like a roe

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides

Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,

Wherever nature led: more like a man

Flying from something that he dreads, than one

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days

And their glad animal movements all gone by)

To me was all in all.—I cannot paint

What then I was. The sounding cataract

Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

Their colours and their forms, were then to me

An appetite; a feeling and a love,

That had no need of a remoter charm,

By thought supplied, nor any interest

Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,

And all its aching joys are now no more,

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts

Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,

Abundant recompense. For I have learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes

The still sad music of humanity,

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power

To chasten and subdue.—And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:

A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still

A lover of the meadows and the woods

And mountains; and of all that we behold

From this green earth; of all the mighty world

Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,

And what perceive; well pleased to recognise

In nature and the language of the sense

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul

Of all my moral being.

                                            Nor perchance,

If I were not thus taught, should I the more

Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

For thou art with me here upon the banks

Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,

My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch

The language of my former heart, and read

My former pleasures in the shooting lights

Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while

May I behold in thee what I was once,

My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,

Knowing that Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,

Through all the years of this our life, to lead

From joy to joy: for she can so inform

The mind that is within us, so impress

With quietness and beauty, and so feed

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

The dreary intercourse of daily life,

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

And let the misty mountain-winds be free

To blow against thee: and, in after years,

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured

Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—

If I should be where I no more can hear

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existence—wilt thou then forget

That on the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together; and that I, so long

A worshipper of Nature, hither came

Unwearied in that service: rather say

With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,

That after many wanderings, many years

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

Dreams by Thomas Traherne

 

   Thoughts! Surely Thoughts are true;

   They please as much as Things can do:

       Nay, Things are dead.

   And in themselves are severed

   From souls, nor can they fill the head

Without our Thoughts. Thoughts are the real things

From whence all joy, from whence all sorrow springs.  

NOTE:  From his Meditations. Traherne develops the idea that reality exists only in our thoughts, not in the material world. 

The Preparative by Thomas Traherne

 

Then was my soul my only all to me

      A living, endless eye

      Far wider than the sky,

Whose power and act and essence was to see.

      I was an inward sphere of light.

Or an interminable orb of sight,

     An endless and a living day,

A vital sun that round about did ray

     All life and sense,

A naked, simple, pure intelligence. 

NOTE: Traherne imagines himself remembering a time when, new-born, he was pure consciousness, free of self, not even aware of his body.  He put this experience in verse.  

Simple Comfort by Winslow Umberger

 

Spartan times as a child

Ring Tum Diddy,

Feelings of plenty.

What made it enough?

Won't You Celebrate With Me by Lucille Clifton

 

won't you celebrate with me

what i have shaped into

a kind of life? i had no model.

born in babylon

both nonwhite and woman

what did i see to be except myself?

i made it up

here on this bridge between

starshine and clay,

my one hand holding tight

my other hand; come celebrate

with me that everyday

something has tried to kill me

and has failed.

Age Is Just a Number by Ian McIntyre

"Age is just a number",

But I don't think that's true,

My bones and joints would argue that,

My skin and stomach, too.

My muscles are no longer taut,

Sometimes they sag and roll,

My curling days are decreasing weights,

And yardwork takes a toll.

Women remain a mystery,

And, most likely, always will,

But I raise my cup, and call a toast,

To their delightful thrill.

Old friends of mine, departed now,

Have stared into their fate,

There will be a crowd, perhaps some beer,

When I reach that Pearly Gate.

"The older I get...", Trevino said,

"...the better I used to be."

Keeping that in mind, pass me a beer,

And keep your old Green Tea.

Surrounded now by vegan friends,

Who munch on celery stalks,

I need a cheeseburger now and then,

And a bagel layered with lox!

But! My get up and go, I'm pleased to say,

Has not completely went,

Up the ladder, at camp I go,

To sleep in my rooftop tent.

The remote places yet call to me,

Desert, forest and lake,

I'll travel far and wide, you'll see,

Until my final wake.

Staring at a TV screen; 

I think, "to hell with that!",

I'll load the car, with camping gear,

And get a friend to feed the cat.

"You live but once.", we've heard this said,

A million times before,

We have the choice, so grab it now,

Your life is not a bore.

Try something new, break and toss the mold,

Your boundary is your mind,

Expand your limits, fill the universe,

And leave the daily grind.

There'll not be a granite stone,

To mark my resting place,

The kids will burn my bones to ash,

To disappear without a trace.

My day begins by writing this,

Words were tumbling in my head,

Got a lot of discoveries yet to make,

Before I join the Dead!

 

The Negro Speaks of Rivers by Langston Hughes

 

I’ve known rivers:

I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.

I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:

Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

The Tables Turned by William Wordsworth

 Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; 

Or surely you'll grow double: 

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; 

Why all this toil and trouble? 

The sun above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields has spread, 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: 

Come, hear the woodland linnet, 

How sweet his music! on my life, 

There's more of wisdom in it. 

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! 

He, too, is no mean preacher: 

Come forth into the light of things, 

Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 

Our minds and hearts to bless— 

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 

Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 

One impulse from a vernal wood 

May teach you more of man, 

Of moral evil and of good, 

Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 

Our meddling intellect 

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— 

We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art; 

Close up those barren leaves; 

Come forth, and bring with you a heart 

That watches and receives. 

Lines Written in Early Spring by William Wordsworth

 

I heard a thousand blended notes, 

While in a grove I sate reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 

Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 

The human soul that through me ran; 

And much it grieved my heart to think 

What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, 

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 

And ’tis my faith that every flower 

Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played, 

Their thoughts I cannot measure:— 

But the least motion which they made 

It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 

And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 

If such be Nature’s holy plan, 

Have I not reason to lament 

What man has made of man?

NOTE: From Lyrical Ballads, And a Few Other Poems. Wordsworth believed that nature is conscious.