I want to tell you something. This morning
is bright after all the steady rain, and every iris,
peony, rose, opens its mouth, rejoicing. I want to say,
wake up, open your eyes, there’s a snow-covered road
ahead, a field of blankness, a sheet of paper, an empty screen.
Even the smallest insects are singing, vibrating their entire bodies, 
tiny violins of longing and desire. We were made for song.
I can’t tell you what prayer is, but I can take the breath 
of the meadow into my mouth, and I can release it for the leaves’ 
green need. I want to tell you your life is a blue coal, a slice
of orange in the mouth, cut hay in the nostrils. The cardinals’
red song dances in your blood. Look, every month the moon
blossoms into a peony, then shrinks to a sliver of garlic.
And then it blooms again.

~ from Healing the Divide, Poems of Kindness & Connection, edited by 
James Crews (Green Writers Press, 2019)
I want to tell you something. This morning
is bright after all the steady rain, and every iris,
peony, rose, opens its mouth, rejoicing. I want to say,
wake up, open your eyes, there’s a snow-covered road
ahead, a field of blankness, a sheet of paper, an empty screen.
Even the smallest insects are singing, vibrating their entire bodies, 
tiny violins of longing and desire. We were made for song.
I can’t tell you what prayer is, but I can take the breath 
of the meadow into my mouth, and I can release it for the leaves’ 
green need. I want to tell you your life is a blue coal, a slice
of orange in the mouth, cut hay in the nostrils. The cardinals’
red song dances in your blood. Look, every month the moon
blossoms into a peony, then shrinks to a sliver of garlic.
And then it blooms again.

~ from Healing the Divide, Poems of Kindness & Connection, edited by James Crews (Green Writers Press, 2019)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)Wait, for now. Distrust everything if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven't they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events will become interesting again. Hair will become interesting. Pain will become interesting. Buds that open out of season will become interesting. Second-hand gloves will become lovely again; their memories are what give them the need for other hands. And the desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old. Wait. Don't go too early. You're tired. But everyone's tired. But no one is tired enough. Only wait a little and listen: music of hair, music of pain, music of looms weaving all our loves again. Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, most of all to hear the flute of your whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion. ~ from Mortal Acts, Mortal Words (Mariner Books, 1980)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)These are the late poems. Most poems are late of course: too late, like a letter sent by a sailor that arrives after he’s drowned. Too late to be of help, such letters, and late poems are similar. They arrive as if through water. Whatever it was has happened: the battle, the sunny day, the moonlit slipping into lust, the farewell kiss. The poem washes ashore like flotsam. Or late, as in late for supper: all the words cold or eaten. Scoundrel, plight, and vanquished, or linger, bide, awhile, forsaken, wept, forlorn. Love and joy, even: thrice-gnawed songs. Rusted spells. Worn choruses. It’s late, it’s very late; too late for dancing. Still, sing what you can. Turn up the light: sing on, sing: On. ~ from Dearly (McClelland & Stewart, 2020

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)I listened to outrageous laughter there by the stone-carving shelter where children painted and listened to Alex Janvier. Year after year on the grounds of Blue Quills I shared a tent with a friend and we told stories of those lonely nights and how we preserved our broken Cree. I walked, ran, skipped swore and sang the fourteen miles from that school all the way to Saddle Lake. We were told by our guide to meditate, be silent in our walk. How could we after our voices were lost in the classrooms of that school? When I reached my home reserve the Old Ones received me and danced me on my blistered feet. Water, tea, fruit, bannock and deer stew. What food would heal this wound bundled against my back? A child still crying in those long school nights. I know of a man who still carries his suitcase, began at six, now sixty years, carrying those little treasures of home that was forever gone. ~ from Burning In This Midnight Dream (Coteau Books, 2016)

A swift, successive chain of things,
That flash, kaleidoscope-like, now in, now out,
Now straight, now eddying in wild rings,
No order, neither law, compels their moves,
But endless, constant, always swiftly roves.

~ in the Public Domain  (originally appeared in Violets and Other Tales, The Monthly Review, 1895)

A swift, successive chain of things,
That flash, kaleidoscope-like, now in, now out,
Now straight, now eddying in wild rings,
No order, neither law, compels their moves,
But endless, constant, always swiftly roves.

~ in the Public Domain  (originally appeared in Violets and Other Tales, The Monthly Review, 1895)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)I stand in the advancing light, my hands hungry, the world beautiful. My eyes can't get enough of the trees-- they're so hopeful, so green. A sunny road runs through the mulberries, I'm at the window of the prison infirmary. I can't smell the medicines-- carnations must be blooming nearby. It's this way: being captured is beside the point, the point is not to surrender. ~ translated by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk (1993) from ten poems for difficult times, by Roger Housden (New World Library, 2018)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)Outside the door, lurking in the shadows, is a terrorist. Is that the wrong description? Outside that door, taking shelter in the shadows, is a freedom fighter. I haven't got this right . Outside, waiting in the shadows, is a hostile militant. Are words no more than waving, wavering flags? Outside your door, watchful in the shadows, is a guerrilla warrior. God help me. Outside, defying every shadow, stands a martyr. I saw his face. No words can help me now. Just outside the door, lost in shadows, is a child who looks like mine. One word for you. Outside my door, his hand too steady, his eyes too hard is a boy who looks like your son, too. I open the door. Come in, I say. Come in and eat with us. The child steps in and carefully, at my door, takes off his shoes. ~ from The Terrorist at My Table (Bloodaxe, 2006)

It all begins with knowing
nothing lasts forever.
So you might as well start packing now.
But, in the meantime,
practice being alive.

There will be a party
where you’ll feel like
nobody’s paying you attention.
And there will be a party
where attention’s all you’ll get.
What you need to do
is know how to talk to
yourself
between these parties.

And,
again,
there will be a day,
— a decade —
where you won’t
fit in with your body
even though you’re in
the only body you’re in.

You need to control
your habit of forgetting
to breathe.

Remember when you were younger
and you practiced kissing on your arm?
You were on to something then.
Sometimes harm knows its own healing
comfort its own intelligence.
Kindness too.
It needs no reason.

There is a you
telling you a story of you.
Listen to her.

Where do you feel
anxiety in your body?
The chest? The fist? The dream before waking?
The head that feels like it’s at the top of the swing
or the clutch of gut like falling
& falling & falling and falling
It knows something: you’re dying.
Try to stay alive.

For now, touch yourself.
I’m serious.

Touch your
self.
Take your hand
and place your hand
some place
upon your body.
And listen
to the community of madness
that
you are.

You are
such an
interesting conversation.

You belong
here.

~ Copyright © 2019 by Pádraig Ó Tuama

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)Go slow if you can. Slower. More slowly still. Friendly dark or fearsome, this is no place to break your neck by rushing, by running, by crashing into what you cannot see. Then again, it is true: different darks have different tasks, and if you have arrived here unaware, if you have come in peril or in pain, this might be no place you should dawdle. I do not know what these shadows ask of you, what they might hold that means you good or ill. It is not for me to reckon whether you should linger or you should leave. But this is what I can ask for you: That in the darkness there be a blessing. That in the shadows there be a welcome. That in the night you be encompassed by the Love that knows your name. © Jan Richardson (janrichardson.com)

the year is done.  I spread the past three hundred
sixty-five days before me on the living room carpet.

here is the month i decided to shed everything not
deeply committed to my dreams.  the day i refused to be
a victim to the self-pity.  here is the week i slept in 
the garden.  the spring i wrung the self-doubt by its neck.
hung your kindness up.  took down the calendar.  the 
week i danced so hard my heart learned to float above
water again.  the summer i unscrewed all the mirrors
from their wallz.  no longer needed to see myself to feel
seen.  combed the weight out of my hair.

i fold the good days up and place them in my back
pocket for safekeeping.  draw the match.  cremate the
unnecessary.  the light of the fire warms my toes.
i pour myself a glass of warm wter to cleanse myself
for january.  here i go.  stronger and wiser into the new.

~from the sun and her flowers (Simon & Schuster Canada, 2017)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)All throughout these months as the shadows have lengthened, this blessing has been gathering itself, making ready, preparing for this night. It has practiced walking in the dark, traveling with its eyes closed, feeling its way by memory by touch by the pull of the moon even as it wanes. So believe me when I tell you this blessing will reach you even if you have not light enough to read it; it will find you even though you cannot see it coming. You will know the moment of its arriving by your release of the breath you have held so long; a loosening of the clenching in your hands, of the clutch around your heart; a thinning of the darkness that had drawn itself around you. This blessing does not mean to take the night away but it knows its hidden roads, knows the resting spots along the path, knows what it means to travel in the company of a friend. So when this blessing comes, take its hand. Get up. Set out on the road you cannot see. This is the night when you can trust that any direction you go, you will be walking toward the dawn. ~from The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief

sometimes I wonder if Mary breastfed Jesus. if she cried out when he bit her or if she sobbed when he would not latch. and sometimes I wonder if this is all too vulgar to ask in a church full of men without milk stains on their shirts or coconut oil on their breasts preaching from pulpits off limits to the Mother of God. but then i think of feeding Jesus, birthing Jesus, the expulsion of blood and smell of sweat, the salt of a mother’s tears onto the soft head of the Salt of the Earth, feeling lonely and tired hungry annoyed overwhelmed loving and i think, if the vulgarity of birth is not honestly preached by men who carry power but not burden, who carry privilege but not labor, who carry authority but not submission, then it should not be preached at all. because the real scandal of the Birth of God lies in the cracked nipples of a 14 year old and not in the sermons of ministers who say women are too delicate to lead. ~ posted on Facebook on Dec 16, 2019 by Kaitlin Hardy Shetler

Friend, hope for the Guest while you are alive. Jump into experience while you are alive! Think... and think... while you are alive. What you call 'salvation' belongs to the time before death. If you don't break your ropes while you're alive, do you think ghosts will do it after? The idea that the soul will join with the ecstatic just because the body is rotten -- that is all fantasy. What is found now is found then. If you find nothing now, you will simply end up with an apartment in the City of Death. If you make love with the divine now, in the next life you will have the face of satisfied desire. So plunge into the truth, find out who the Teacher is, Believe in the Great Sound! Kabir says this: When the Guest is being searched for, it is the intensity of the longing for the Guest that does all the work. Look at me, and you will see a slave of that intensity. ~ from The Soul Is here For Its Own Joy, edited by Robert Bly (HarperCollins Publishers, 1995)

Some people feel lost inside their days. Always waiting for worse to happen. They make bets with destiny. My funniest uncle gave up cursing bad words inside his head. He says he succeeded one whole hour. He tried to unsubscribe to the universe made by people. He slept outside by himself on top of the hill. When Facebook says I have “followers”— I hope they know I need their help. Subscribe to plants, animals, stars, music, the baby who can’t walk yet but stands up holding on to the sides of things, tables, chairs, and takes a few clumsy steps, then sits down hard. This is how we live. ~ from The Tiny Journalist (BOA Editions, Ltd. 2019)

 for my mother

Odd but necessary the solution that comes to us,
to stare through glass at you: your parched face
slanted towards the afternoon light. On your wall
a forest you’d painted when we were young.

Two red coated figures walk under trees
and we remember the bedtime story you read us –
wardrobe portal into snow, a lamppost, Narnia’s wood.
Now, here is the masked carer, opening the window

to the love we yell in – such force it unsettles you.
We’re ready to turn back to our strange world
where we stand apart, can’t touch, but lucky
we’ve seen your lips pucker into one last kiss.

~ 11 April 2020, Blackrock, Co. Dublin
(Manchester Metropolitan University, 
https://www.mmu.ac.uk/write/through-the-window)

This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter weather passes.
Try, as best you can, not to let
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart
All sense of yourself
And your hesitant light.
If you remain generous,
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on fresh pastures of promise,
Where the air will be kind
And blushed with beginning.

~ from To Bless the Space Between Us (Doubleday March 4, 2008)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)1. The tide comes in, swollen, inching over rocks. Here, the full day meets the broken day, and the hour, full of light, holds the sea in its arms. If blue is hope it is all around me. 2. In this frame, there is more weight on one side than on the other, surf pounding off rocks into openness, spaciousness, so that in the end one is just beginning possibility. 3. Let’s believe, in time all desire reaches it’s goal. I wear my loose and beautiful dress After the storm, water shows itself unbearably tender, haunting. 4. Honour, relinquishment. I plough soil again and again. Who doesn’t want what’s underneath? 5. When night comes, something speaks from that soft, fragrant wilderness. It says, the heart is not a door. But it opens. We feel in the dark for the hinge. The body, our great ally, knows what it's here for. ~ from In Cannon Cave (Brick Books, 1997)

I would like to describe the simplest emotion 
joy or sadness 
but not as others do 
reaching for shafts of rain or sun  

I would like to describe a light 
which is being born in me 
but I know it does not resemble 
any star 
for it is not so bright 
not so pure 
and is uncertain  

I would like to describe courage 
without dragging behind me a dusty lion 
and also anxiety 
without shaking a glass full of water  

to put it another way 
I would give all metaphors 
in return for one word 
drawn out of my breast like a rib 
for one word 
contained within the boundaries 
of my skin  

but apparently this is not possible  

and just to say - I love 
I run around like mad 
picking up handfuls of birds 
and my tenderness 
which after all is not made of water 
asks the water for a face 
and anger 
different from fire 
borrows from it 
a loquacious tongue  

so is blurred 
so is blurred 
in me 
what white-haired gentlemen 
separated once and for all 
and said  
this is the subject 
and this is the object  

we fall asleep 
with one hand under our head 
and with the other in a mound of planets  

our feet abandon us 
and taste the earth 
with their tiny roots 
which next morning 
we tear out painfully

~from The Collected Poems 1956-1998 (Ecco, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, 2007)

Everything remembers something. The rock, its fiery bed, cooling and fissuring into cracked pieces, the rub of watery fingers along its edge. The cloud remembers being elephant, camel, giraffe, remembers being a veil over the face of the sun, gathering itself together for the fall. The turtle remembers the sea, sliding over and under its belly, remembers legs like wings, escaping down the sand under the beaks of savage birds. The tree remembers the story of each ring, the years of drought, the floods, the way things came walking slowly towards it long ago. And the skin remembers its scars, and the bone aches where it was broken. The feet remember the dance, and the arms remember lifting up the child. The heart remembers everything it loved and gave away, everything it lost and found again, and everyone it loved, the heart cannot forget. ~ from Coming Back to the Body (Holy Cow! Press, 2000)