Evergreen by David Malouf

Megan

Mary


At twenty an admirer
of crocus and hyacinth, all
those dawn stars like snowflakes
lighting the grass,
I expected like them
to burn out fast, touch paper
flaring, gone
in a quick blast before thirty.
How else should one live?

And here I am a decade
on from that early death.
Having endured
thirty and the years
beyond, it's the stolid ones, the inchling
head - in - clouds slow - growers
I envy -  turning stars
in their branches, holding
fast to the earth.

It's trees I look for nowadays,
year after year
adding their rings, recording
this month's frost, that season's
burning,  the arrival
and departure of leaves, birds,
mice, barefoot invaders,
and applecore wars
in the kingdom of twigs.

I've discovered an old man's folly,
I'm planting giants :  wych elm,
chestnut, larch, a seed
cast into the next
  long  - shadowed century.
I doze in the
shade of a bunyah pine, its roots
deep in the 1880s,
bubbling with doves.

In its wind - rocked boughs the heavy
green Pacific drowses
and grandfather sets sail
to find us; the tree is
dreaming our lives.
Its dust - thick shadow reaches
the road, and I
swing high on a tide of voices.
Green, green, evergreen.

Who Are My People? by Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni

Mary

Megan

Who Are My People?

My people? Who are they?

I went into the church where the congregation

Worshipped my God. Were they my people?

I felt no kinship to them as they knelt there.

My people! Where are they?

I went into the land where I was born,

Where men spoke my language...

I was a stranger there.

"My people," my soul cried. "Who are my people?"

Last night in the rain I met an old man

Who spoke a language I do not speak,

Which marked him as one who does not know my God.

With apologetic smile he offered me

The shelter of his patched umbrella.

I met his eyes... And then I knew...

Robert Frost at Eighty by Peter Boyle





Megan

Mary

I think there are poems greater and stranger than any I have known.

I would like to find them.

They are not on the greying paper of old books

or chanted on obscure lips.

They are not in the language of mermaids

or the sharp-tongued adjectives of vanishing.

They run like torn threads along paving stones.

They are cracked as the skull of an old man.

They stir in the mirror

at fifty,

at eighty.

My ear keeps trying to hear them

but the seafront is cold.

The tide moves in.

They migrate like crows at a cricket ground.

They knock at the door when I am out.

I have done with craft.

How can I front ghosts with cleverness,

the slick glide of paradox and rhyme

that transforms prejudice

to brittle gems of seeming wisdom?

Though I bury all I own or hold close

though my skin outlives the trees

though the lines fall shattering the stone

I cannot catch them.

They have the lilting accent

of a house I saw but never entered.

They are the sounds a child hears –

the water, the afternoon, the sky.

I watch them now

trickling through the open mirror.

Sometimes, but almost never

we touch what we desire.





Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye

Mary

Megan

Kindness

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken

will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,

you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho

lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he too was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans

and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak it till your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore

only kindness that ties your shoes

and sends you out into the day to mail letters and

purchase bread,

only kindness that raises its head

from the crowd of the world to say

it is I you have been looking for,

and then goes with you everywhere

like a shadow or a friend.

from The Words Under the Words: Selected Poems

Litany by Billy Collins

Mary

Megan

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine. 

My Time by Leonard Cohen

Mary

Megan

My Time

My time is running out
and still
I have not sung
the true song
the great song

I admit
that I seem
to have lost my courage

a glance at the mirror
a glimpse into my heart
makes me want
to shut up forever

so why do you lean me here
Lord of my life
lean me at this table
in the middle of the night
wondering
how to be beautiful


From Book of Longing by Leonard Cohen

Swan by Mary Oliver

Megan

Mary

Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?

Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -

An armful of white blossoms,

A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned

into the bondage of its wings;   a snowbank, a bank of lilies,

Biting the air with its black beak?

Did you hear it, fluting and whistling

A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall

Knifing down the black ledges?

And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -

A white cross streaming across the sky, its feet

Like black leaves, its wings like the stretching light of the river?

And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?

And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?

And have you changed your life?

From Swan:Poems and Prose by Mary Oliver