In the cloud-grey mornings
I heard the herons flying;
And when I came into my garden,
My silken outer-garment
Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch,
But I have seen many Autumns
With herons blowing like smoke
Across the sky.
I read the space
Around the poem.
It has no meaning,
But says so much.
It betrays a little secret
That no reader ever learned
Who was too concerned
With what was written,
While wholly inattentive
To
What
Was
Not.
You came to my door in the dawn and sang;
it angered me to be awakened from sleep,
and you went away unheeded.
You came in the noon and asked for water;
it vexed me in my work,
and you were sent away with reproaches.
You came in the evening with your flaming torches.
You seemed to me like a terror and I shut my door.
Now in the midnight I sit alone in my lampless room
and call you back whom I turned away in insult.
Startlement: New and Selected Poems by Ada Limon
Lost
in a foggy wood.
all the trees alike,
no long view,
no hint of the sun's position...
(or existence.)
just the vertical stripes of
straight pinetree trunks --
like the bars
of the cell
of a giant --
laid against a fluffy white
backdrop.
I can scurry between
the bars, like a mouse,
but am still lost
and still caged.
That strange flower, the sun,
Is just what you say.
Have it your way.
The world is ugly,
And the people are sad.
That tuft of jungle feathers,
That animal eye,
Is just what you say.
That savage of fire,
That seed,
Have it your way.
The world is ugly,
And the people are sad.
Humans have been hunters,
gatherers,
farmers,
machines,
thinkers,
and creators,
And have no idea what we'll next be.
I think that people will next be
-- simply --
Human Beings,
Full-time Human Beings --
More Human,
More Being...
And many will fail spectacularly.
Moving through the Great Spontaneous,
Blender blades barely missing --
In fact, sometimes nicking.
The accumulation of those nicks
Is aging.
It takes an ever-defter dance to keep
The damage buildup to a constant pace --
Not letting it blitz one,
Or pull one into the turbine:
Like a goose through
The turbofans of a 787.
A goose may kill a plane,
But becomes dust in the process.
When one surrenders to the choppers
One will not have the satisfaction
Of killing the vehicle,
Of bringing it all down.
The Universe will go on,
And one's molecules will become
Something new.
Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old,
Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,
A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,
Chair’d in the adamant of Time.
Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River
Are your words in the dark, Beloved.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 