Be not defeated by the rain, Nor let the wind prove your better.
Succumb not to the snows of winter. Nor be bested by the heat of summer.

Be strong in body. Unfettered by desire. Not enticed to anger. Cultivate a quiet joy.
Count yourself last in everything. Put others before you.
Watch well and listen closely. Hold the learned lessons dear.

A thatch-roof house, in a meadow, nestled in a pine grove's shade.

A handful of rice, some miso, and a few vegetables to suffice for the day.

If, to the East, a child lies sick: Go forth and nurse him to health.
If, to the West, an old lady stands exhausted: Go forth, and relieve her of burden.
If, to the South, a man lies dying: Go forth with words of courage to dispel his fear.
If, to the North, an argument or fight ensues:
Go forth and beg them stop such a waste of effort and of spirit.

In times of drought, shed tears of sympathy.
In summers cold, walk in concern and empathy.

Stand aloof of the unknowing masses:
Better dismissed as useless than flattered as a "Great Man".

This is my goal, the person I strive to become.
-- 'Be Not Defeated By the Rain' by Kenji Miyazawa, trans. David Sulz

#FridayPoem #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry

In the midst of snow,
news of spring arrives.

The icy plum tree is adorned
with glittering jasper branches.

Its fragrant, charming faces
are in half-bloom,

like a beautiful woman,
newly washed,
emerging from her bath
at the edge of the courtyard.

Nature favors them
with glittering moonlight.

Let us raise
our gold cups
and drown in wine.

Who could refuse?

These blooms
have no compare.
~~ 'The Fisherman's Pride' by Lin Qingzhao from 'The Magpie at Night'; trans. by Wendy Chen

#FridayPoem #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry

The aspen glitters in the wind.
And that delights us.

The leaf flutters, turning,
Because that motion in the heat of summer
Protects its cells from drying out. Likewise the leaf
Of the cottonwood.

The gene pool threw up a wobbly stem
And the tree danced. No.
The tree capitalized.
No. There are limits to saying,
In language, what the tree did.

It is good sometimes for poetry to disenchant us.

Dance with me, dancer. Oh, I will.

Aspens doing something in the wind.
~~ 'The Problem of Describing Trees' by Robert Hass from 'A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker'

#FridayPoem #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry

The old man
must have stopped our car
two dozen times to climb out
and gather into his hands
the small toads blinded
by our lights and leaping,
live drops of rain.

The rain was falling,
a mist about his white hair
and I kept saying
you can’t save them all
accept it, get back in,
we’ve got places to go.

But, leathery hands full
of wet brown life
knee deep in the summer
roadside grass
he just smiled and said
they have places to go
too.
~~'Birdfoot's Grampa' by Joseph Bruchac

#FridayPoem #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry

I love a wild daffodil,
the one that grows
where she’s planted—
along a wooded highway
left to her own abandon,
but not abandoned.
Her big yellow head
leaning toward or away
from the sun. Not excluded
but exclusive, her trumpet
heralds no one, not even
the Canada geese—
their long-necked honks
announcing their journey.
She’ll be here less
than a season, grace us
with green slender stems,
strong enough to withstand
rain and spring’s early chill.
And when she goes,
what remains she’ll bury
deep inside the bulb of her,
take a part of me with her
until she returns.
~~ 'For Ella' by January Gill O'Neil from 'The Wonder of Small Things'

#FridayPoem #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry

Spring thaw peels loose
the leaves snow caught
last fall before they
had really settled down:

now, windy Sunday, they
stir over dry lawn
and remnant windrows of
ice, as if looking

for the place they’d meant
to go: but it’s not now
as it was then
settling-down time, and

everywhere the leaves go
greens are
breaking out
amid the funeral arrangements

and the eyes of jonquils
hold on to their morning
tears and demure snowdrops
try not to look so bright.
~~ 'Ghosts' by A.R. Ammons from 'Century of Poetry in The New Yorker', ed. Kevin Young

#FridayPoem #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry

the earth is a living thing
is a black shambling bear
ruffling its wild back and tossing
mountains into the sea

is a black hawk circling
the burying ground circling the bones
picked clean and discarded

is a fish black blind in the belly of water
is a diamond blind in the black belly of coal

is a black and living thing
is a favorite child
of the universe
feel her rolling her hand
in its kinky hair
feel her brushing it clean
~~ 'the earth is a living thing' by Lucille Clifton from 'The Gift of Animals'

#FridayPoem #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry

There are days when,
although I try to open myself
to wonder, wonder just
won’t be found. Or perhaps,
it is more accurate to say
on those days I am simply
blind to what the world
has to offer

until I look down, and there,
beside the sidewalk,
are blades of grass completely
enrobed in ice, shimmering
in the glow of the setting sun,
and as they sway and move
into each other, if I listen,
really listen,
even they are singing
faint little bell-notes of joy.
~~ 'Can You Hear It?' by Paula Gordon Lepp from 'The Wonder of Small Things'

#FridayPoem #TodaysPoem #poetry @bookstodon

In Mary Cassatt’s Little Blue Armchair,
it’s not the child I look at but the Norwich terrier,
twin to mine, curled up on another armchair.
And in Picasso’s Boy with Dog, I want
to enter the famous Blue Period to pat it.

There are dogs in the cave paintings in France,
and the hounds in the Bayeaux Tapestry
are stitched into the scene by hand, chasing
their embroidered prey right into art history.

It’s said that dogs in paintings
domesticate the scene or symbolize love,
that even a still life of flowers and fruit
may have a poodle or dachshund
hidden under the table.
~~ 'The Art of the Dog' by Linda Pastan from 'The Gift of Animals'

#FridayPoem #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry

The hand of breaking glaciers
passes silver over the earth,
a river of ice, the trees all ashine,
their first blooms frozen in the blue forest
and even our words slide from the cold.
You’d think the world stopped
or battened down
its window for the night,
latched up the silver rivers,
iced over the creaking trees.
Outside only two herons
hold a heart of warmth
inside the invisible
embrace of danger,
the river freezing.
As I return home
I pull up a blanket, pull close the dog,
the cat, and watch the two silver herons
fly across crystallized glass.
~~ 'Ice Storm' by Linda Hogan from 'Dark, Sweet'

#FridayPoem #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry