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Two poems – Yehuda Amichai
“The Place Where We Are Right”
From the place where we are right
Flowers will never grow
In the spring.
The place where we are right
Is hard and trampled
Like a yard.
But doubts and loves
Dig up the world
Like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
Where the ruined
House once stood.
“A Man Doesn’t Have Time in His Life “
A man doesn’t have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn’t have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn’t have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn’t learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there’s time for everything.
Poetry
Boplicity or Jimmy Throws a Houseparty for Huey Newton – Daniel B. Summerhill
| inertia’s at the front door lobbying for a way into the funk but packed the wrong tools, left blues back where bebop jumped over the hammer. sold God’s imagination short. now we’re here dancing again, Bessie’s song got my hips loose & what goods a revolution without a two-step? beloved, there’s a party tonight & everybody gon’ be there tonight, in Oakland, we carve up maplewood in steel-toe boots, stomp keys into the myth of whiteness. uncle sam’s teeth rattle. Huey clinks the bars with Plato’s Republic between here and LA, conjures the one & three count. american chaos. bass haunts the dichotomy, counterproduces the violence. troubles innocence. tonight in Oakland, the party is everywhere & we cant distinguish one riff from another. black smoke funnels out the attic & the lamp shade’s crooked from the kickdrum beloved, (i said) there’s a party tonight & everybody gon’ be there i’m trading in my gold tooth for a hand grenade at the back door: morning glory, milkweed, poppy. the rest have names too, distinct & communal as sin. would you believe me if i told you miracles were small enough to hold? scorched amber. night blooms. forgive me, sometimes the light blinds me to the light. beloved, it’s a party tonight. everybodys here |
Poetry
Who Says Words With My Mouth? – Jalal ad-Din Rumi
All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry, I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
Poetry
We are the Trees – J Raymond
I see now, growing old is a luxury.
We ought to focus more on aging gratefully,
than gracefully.
Life isn’t a tree we’re meant to carve our
name into the trunk of.
We are the trees,
and life leaves its mark upon us.
My body will betray me
long before my spirit breaks.
Each wrinkle, a well-earned reminder of all
the ways by face wears happiness.
I’ve lost too many people,
seen enough lights snuffed out early,
to walk these roads begrudgingly.
Or with envy.
Or with anything other than appreciation.
I’ll take every step left affectionately.
When the day comes,
feed the earth our flesh and bones,
knowing that from where we lie
love grows.
Poetry
Another Planet – Dunya Mikhail
I have a special ticket
to another planet
beyond this Earth.
A comfortable world, and beautiful:
a world without much smoke,
not too hot
and not too cold.
The creatures
are gentler there,
and the governments
have no secrets.
The police are nonexistent:
there are no problems
and no fights.
And the schools
don’t exhaust their students
with too much work
for history has yet to start
and there’s no geography
and no other languages.
And even better: the war
has left its “r” behind
and turned into love,
so the weapons sleep
beneath the dust,
and the planes pass by
without shelling the cities,
and the boats
look like smiles
on the water.
All things
are peaceful
and kind
on the other planet
beyond this Earth.
But still I hesitate
to go alone.
Millennium Blessing – Stephen Levine
There is a grace approaching
that we shun as much as death,
it is the completion of our birth.
It does not come in time,
but in timelessness
when the mind sinks into the heart
and we remember.
It is an insistent grace that draws us
to the edge and beckons us surrender
safe territory and enter our enormity.
We know we must pass
beyond knowing
and fear the shedding.
But we are pulled upward
none-the-less
through forgotten ghosts
and unexpected angels,
luminous.
And there is nothing left to say
but we are That.
And that is what we sing about.
Poetry
Squirrel – Lynn Ungar
Every day at the park
the dog goes mad chasing squirrels
that he will never catch. The busyness
of the squirrels is unending,
and so is his pursuit. He has no concern
for sense or safety, would gladly
follow his obsession
in front of an oncoming car.
And so every day we practice
coming back. I call his name,
and mostly, on a good day,
he circles gleefully around to me
before heading out again.
Every day, over and over,
that futile chase and the return.
Every day, a galloping dharma talk
on the discipline of calling out again
to my scattered mind,
to my grasping soul,
that it is time to come home.
Poetry
We will meet, don’t be in such a rush – Hala alShrouf
In twenty thousand years, when the dust settles on this earth
and the despair, and
its fires burn out, and it recovers from horrors that today seem endless,
and the planet returns to what it was twenty millennia ago—
green with blue water, and white clouds always—
then we will meet.
We will arrive as we did the first time:
without shields, without weapons,
eyes open to the soul,
whose question is a key,
whose answer is a haven,
whose language travels—like waves of light on ether—the distance between us,
beyond speech.
We’re going to need that time. Perhaps more.
For the volcanoes to cool,
and lamps to light the first, second, and third skies,
for the trees to reform into forests extending in all directions,
for light rays to return to their source—gold’s and silver’s light—and you and I:
You will see me and fall into my arms.
I will see you and fall into your arms.
West Bank, 2023
Poetry
