In this country, Jamaica is not quite as far 
as you might think. Walking through Peckham
in London, West Moss Road in Manchester, 
you pass green and yellow shops 
where tie-headwomen bargain over the price 
of dasheen. And beside Jamaica is Spain 
selling large yellow peppers, lemon to squeeze 
onto chicken. Beside Spain is Pakistan, then Egypt, 
Singapore, the world ... here, strangers build home 
together, flood the ports with curry and papayas; 
in Peckham and on Moss road, the place smells 
of more than just patty or tandoori. It smells like 
Mumbai, like Castries, like Princess Street, Jamaica. 
Sometimes in this country, the only thing far away 
is this country.

~ from Border Lines, Poems of Migration (Alfred A Knopf, 2020)In this country, Jamaica is not quite as far  as you might think. Walking through Peckham in London, West Moss Road in Manchester,  you pass green and yellow shops  where tie-headwomen bargain over the price  of dasheen. And beside Jamaica is Spain  selling large yellow peppers, lemon to squeeze  onto chicken. Beside Spain is Pakistan, then Egypt,  Singapore, the world ... here, strangers build home  together, flood the ports with curry and papayas;  in Peckham and on Moss road, the place smells  of more than just patty or tandoori. It smells like  Mumbai, like Castries, like Princess Street, Jamaica.  Sometimes in this country, the only thing far away  is this country.  ~ from Border Lines, Poems of Migration (Alfred A Knopf, 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)Rest, now. Let the weight you run from every day now draw you down. Later there will be more time to tend to everything left undone Now, rest. Fall into your own bones lying horizontal on this ground. Come into your dark corners. Come into this original nakedness under all the layers. Come where all your losses split you open. Don't rise, yet -- rest. Be drawn deeper down into the salt tide of tears. Let grief wash you, then drown you beyond the name you were first given, when you reached to touch your own mother's face for the very first time, and she smiled her light down into you. Now reach those same fingers for the face of infinity -- so that, opening your eyes, you will know the one dreaming you is pleased with you, that everything seen is your self, and that now is the time to rise wholehearted into the work aching to be animated by precisely you. ~ from Bury The Seed (Performance Integral, 2020)

Though my mother was already two years dead Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas, put hot water bottles her side of the bed and still went to renew her transport pass. You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone. He'd put you off an hour to give him time to clear away her things and look alone as though his still raw love were such a crime. He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief though sure that very soon he'd hear her key scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief. He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea. I believe life ends with death, and that is all. You haven't both gone shopping; just the same, in my new black leather phone book there's your name and the disconnected number I still call. ~ from Poems of Healing (Alfred A Knopf, Everyman’s Library, 2021)

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)He was about four, I think... it was so long ago. In a garden; he'd done some damage behind a bright screen of sweet-peas - snapped a stalk, a stake, I don't recall, but the grandmother came and saw, and asked him "Did you do that?" Now, if she'd said why did you do that, he'd never have denied it. She showed him he had a choice. I could see in his face the new sense, the possible. That word and deed need not match, that you could say the world different, to suit you. When he said "No", I swear it was as moving as the first time a baby's fist clenches on a finger, as momentous as the first taste of fruit. I could feel his eyes looking through a new window, at a world whose form and colour weren't fixed but fluid, that poured like a snake, trembled around the edges like northern lights, shape-shifted at the spell of a voice. I could sense him filling like a glass, hear the unreal sea in his ears. This is how to make songs, create men, paint pictures, tell a story. I think I made up the screen of sweet-peas. Maybe they were beans, maybe there was no screen: it just felt as if there should be, somehow. And he was my - no, I don't need to tell that. I know I made up the screen. And I recall very well what he had done ~ from The Beautiful Lie (Seren 2002)

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)If you ask me, us takes in undulations – each wave in the sea, all insides compressed – as if, from one coast, you could reach out to the next; and maybe it’s a Midlands thing but when I was young, us equally meant me, says the one, ‘Oi, you, tell us where yer from’; and the way supporters share the one fate – I, being one, am Liverpool no less – cresting the Mexican wave of we or us, a shore-like state, two places at once, God knows what’s in it; and, at opposite ends my heart’s sunk at separations of us. When it comes to us, colour me unsure. Something in me, or it, has failed the course. I’d love to think I could stretch to it – us – but the waves therein are too wide for words. I hope you get, here, where I’m coming from. I hope you’re with me on this – between love and loss – where I’d give myself away, stranded as if the universe is a matter of one stress. Us. I hope, from here on, I can say it and though far-fetched, it won’t be too far wrong. ~ from Border Lines, Poems of Migration (Alfred A Knopf, 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) Tibetan Buddhist maxim And yet, wouldn't it be welcome at the end of each ordinary day? The audience could be small, the theater modest. Folding chairs in a church basement would do. …Just a short earnest burst of applause that you got up that morning and, one way or the other, made it through the day. You soaped up in the steaming shower, drank your Starbucks in the car, and let the guy with the Windex wipe your windshield during the long red light at Broad Street. Or maybe you were that guy, not daring to light up while you stood there because everyone's so down on smoke these days. Or you kissed your wife as she hurried out the door, even though you were pretty sure she was meeting her lover at the Flamingo Motel, even though you wanted to grab her by a hank of her sleek hair. Maybe your son's in jail. Your daughter's stopped eating. And your husband's still dead this morning, just like he was yesterday and the day before that. And yet you put on your shoes and take a walk, and when a neighbor says Good morning, you say Good morning back. Would a round of applause be amiss? Even if you weren't good. If you yelled at your kid, poisoned the ants, drank too much and said that really stupid thing you promised yourself you wouldn't say. Even if you don't deserve it. ~ from The Human Line (Copper Canyon Press, 2007)

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)Today I was awakened by strong coffee and the awareness that the earth is busy with whales even though we can’t see any unless we have embarked on a whale watch, which would be disappointing if we still couldn’t see any. I can see the steam rising from my yellow cup, the usual furniture scattered about, and even some early light filtering through the palms. Meanwhile, thousands of whales are cruising along at various speeds under the seas, crisscrossing one another, slaloming in and out of the Gulf Stream, some with their calves traveling alongside—such big blunt heads they have! So is it too much to ask that one day a year be set aside for keeping in mind while we step onto a bus, consume a ham sandwich, or stoop to pick up a coin from a sidewalk the multitude of these mammoth creatures coasting between the continents, some for the fun of it, others purposeful in their journeys, all concealed under the sea, unless somewhere one breaks the surface with an astonishing upheaval of water and all the people in yellow slickers rush to one side of the boat to pint and shout and wonder how to tell their friends about the day they saw a whale? ~ from Whale Day (Random House, 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 visit the grocery store like the Indian woman in Peru attends the cathedral. Saying a few words over and over; butter, bread, apples, butter bread apples. I nod to the grandmothers muttering among roots. Their carts tell stories: they eat little, they live alone. Last week two women compared their cancers matter-of-factly as I compare soups. How do you reach that point of acceptance? Life and death shoved in the same basket and you with a calm face waiting at the checkout stand. We must bless ourselves with peaches. Pray to the eggplant, silent among her sisters , that the seeds will not be bitter on her tongue. Confess our fears to the flesh of tomato: we go forward only halfway ripened dreaming of the deeper red. ~ from Everything Comes Next (Greenwillow Books, 2020) ~ from @MosabAbuToha

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)We plant seeds in the ground And dreams in the sky, Hoping that, someday, the roots of one Will meet the upstretched limbs of the other. It has not happened yet. We share the sky, all of us, the whole world: Together, we are a tribe of eyes that look upward, Even as we stand on uncertain ground. The earth beneath us moves, quiet and wild, Its boundaries shifting, its muscles wavering. The dream of sky is indifferent to all this, Impervious to borders, fences, reservations. The sky is our common home, the place we all live. There we are in the world together. The dream of sky requires no passport. Blue will not be fenced. Blue will not be a crime. Look up. Stay awhile. Let your breathing slow. Know that you always have a home here. ~ 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 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)