It was as if all the pageantry had been for this:
the quiet after, the simmered light,
the soothing shapes our mouths made as we tasted.
James Crews
Darkest Before Dawn
Three days into the new year,
and despite the lack of adequate light,
our white phalaenopsis orchid
has eased open a third delicate bloom.
Perhaps coaxed by the warmth
of the woodstove a few feet away,
the orchid thrives in its tiny pot
shaped like the shell of a nautilus,
sending out new stems and glossy leaves,
its aerial roots—green at the tips—
reaching upward like tentacles
to sip the morning air. These blooms
stir something too long asleep in me,
proving with stillness and slow growth
what I haven’t been able to trust
these past few months—that hope
and grace still reign in certain sectors
of the living world, that there are laws
which can never be overturned
by hateful words or the wishes
of power-hungry men. Be patient,
this orchid seems to say, and reveal
your deepest self even in the middle
of winter, even in the darkness
before the coming dawn.
Brad Peacock
Rosary
for my grandfather
Some say it is darkest before dawn—
they must not be morning dwellers,
those of us who wake
long before the masses
to see the beauty
of a world in transition.
I walk these city streets
stripped of yesterday’s worries,
laid bare like the sidewalks in front of me.
A crow calls
stopping me in my tracks,
back to the here and now,
after my mind has taken flight.
I look toward the sky
for the sentinel to sound his alarm again,
and glimpse a sliver of silver light
illuminating the cross
atop a towering cathedral.
I feel my fingers move in my mittens,
as if tracing every detail
of those sacred family beads
you handed me
long before you were gone.
Julie Murphy
To Ask
To wear your dead husband’s sweatshirt
long after his scent has faded,
the cotton soft, wrist and waist bands
frayed, the white Wrigley Field
still bright, to pull the hood over your head,
nestle into darkness the way he would on a cold night,
to conjure him, slideshow of your lives
playing in the background, shot by shot,
as if this cloth could incarnate the self
who wore it, day after day, year after year,
or the self who you were, to be that self for an instant,
glimpse whatever it was—joy, sorrow—
that made you whole,
to know yourself forever changed,
glimpse or no glimpse, gone forever.
To not know, in the vast space
of grief, who you ever could become,
and ask who, without despair
to ask with hope—
Tess Taylor
There Doesn’t Need to Be a Poem
for this sadness. Simply to breathe
next to a stream that slips into the gutter
near your house
would be enough. To see,
next door, in the graveyard,
the brown-and-yellow millipede
bury itself below one granite stone,
joining in the work of making soil,
just as now the faithful oxygen
still turns the copper headstone green,
oxidizing to patina despite all.
By luck, your own feathered alveoli
still redden blood, your fine cell walls
trade oxygen for carbon,
and sift the windy mix we call the air:
This happens, going on invisibly
even if no one remembers how
& even if it seems that pain
is a volatile molecule, grief
bonding unpredictably to things.
Now the late sun rims a cloud.
You, who watch that cloud:
Inhale. Exhale.
Amy Dryansky
Wingspan
for Donna
Every day I draw in air you can’t
& try to send it to you, alone
in a hospital, a machine breathing
for you, & because we aren’t
allowed to see you I’m imagining
wings for you—yes, cynical me
earnestly conjuring an angel
or eagle, golden, wings spread,
alighting immensely gently
on your chest, carrying light & air
who love you, filling your lungs
with breath, heat, life, a garden.
If I could, I would wake you
with light, believe in anything.
Joy Harjo
Eagle Poem
To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear;
Can’t know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren’t always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.
Terri Kirby Erickson
What Matters
What other people think of you,
what they say, are burdens
no one should carry. Lift a spoon,
a cup, things that fit in your hand.
Carry on a conversation,
pick up a baby. Listen to the wind
when it whispers, nothing else.
There is no one watching you,
no one straining to hear what
you say. The present has arrived
and you are in it. Your heart
is pumping. Your breath moves
in and out of your lungs without
anyone’s help or permission.
Let go of everything else. Let
your life, handed to you through
no effort of your own, be all
the proof you need. You are loved.
Mark Nepo
In Love with the World
There is no end to love. We may tear ourselves away, or fall off the cliff we thought sacred, or return one day to find the home we dreamt of burning. But when the rain slows to a slant and the pavement turns cold, that place where I keep you and you and all of you—that place opens, like a fist no longer strong enough to stay closed. And the ache returns. Thank God. The sweet and sudden ache that lets me know I am alive. The rain keeps misting my face. What majesty of cells assembles around this luminous presence that moves around as me? How is it I’m still here? Each
thing touched, each breath, each glint of light, each pain in my gut is cause for praise. I pray to keep falling in love with everyone I meet, with every child’s eye, with every fallen being getting up. Like a worm cut in two, the heart only grows another heart. When the cut in my mind heals, I grow another mind. Birds migrate and caribou circle the cold top of the world. Perhaps we migrate between love and suffering, making our wounded-joyous cries: alone, then together, alone, then together. Oh praise the soul’s migration. I fall. I get up. I run from you. I look for you. I am again in love with the world.
Reading Group Questions and Topics for Discussion
Does this strike you as a hopeful poem, and if so, why?
What do you think Laux means when she says, “there is something more to come for humanity,” and when she refers to the heart as “an uncharted sea”?
In the end, the poet implies that the praise she applies to humanity will help lift us all up, in spite of our flaws. How might praise of a difficult situation lead to acceptance and gratitude?
Invitation for Writing and Reflection: When was the last time you felt a full faith in the goodness and potential of humanity, when you felt truly grateful to be alive? What brought on this feeling?
“Hoodie” by January Gill O’Neil
Why does this mother thinking of her son “fear for his safety,” and what is significant about the image of his hoodie in the poem?
Consider the final lines, when this mother wonders “who could mistake him / for anything but good.” How might these words invite us into a sense of greater compassion?
What are some of the ways that O’Neil’s poem urges us to hold on to the basic assumption of goodness and innocence in others, no matter what they might be wearing, no matter the color of their skin?
Invitation for Writing and Reflection: Describe an instance when you were able to see past your own anxieties and come into a deeper empathy with others in your world. What allowed you to scale the wall of fear, and how did it feel to move toward the hope on the other side?
“A Cure Against Poisonous Thought” by Annie Lighthart
What is the “cure” that Lighthart presents here as she observes a bee bending inside a honeysuckle blossom?
How can the simple act of observation, especially in nature, lift us out of our minds?
What do you make of the last lines of the poem? How is the body “not root but wick,” always searching for “the press of light” that she mentions?
Invitation for Writing and Reflection: Describe a time when a moment spent in the natural world helped pause your thoughts and made you feel more fully alive.
“The Fish” by Jane Hirshfield
In this poem, Hirshfield suggests there is some part of us, fishlike, “that stitches / the inner water / and the outer water together.” Do you feel there is some part of us that constantly swims between inner and outer worlds to fulfill our needs?
What do you feel she means when she says, “we walk the luminous seam”? Must we always tread the line between our mind and life as it is around us?
Do you agree that there’s a “broad world we make daily” in our minds, and one we “daily give ourselves to”? Is she implying that we create the world we live in, to a large degree, yet must still surrender to certain aspects of reality that remain out of our control?
Invitation for Writing and Reflection: If we take enough time for ourselves (and for our souls), we can sometimes “flow” between self and world, perhaps even enjoying the back and forth. Think back to a time when you walked “the luminous seam” with more ease and consider what allowed you to do so.
“How It Might Continue” by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
What does Trommer mean when she suggests that we can go around with “our pockets full of exclamation marks”? Do you know someone like this, who carries the seeds of delight with them wherever they go, giving them freely?
Do you find that amazement and joy can be contagious? How might you make it a daily practice to “scatter” and spread that joy to others, even knowing that some of the seeds will not grow?
How can our own joy bring about change in the world, even if it’s not “heard,” even if the change is not tangible?
Invitation for Writing and Reflection: When was the last time you gave yourself permission to fully feel an instance of joy or amazement? Did this feeling catch on with others and carry over into other areas of your life?
“When Giving Is All We Have” by Alberto Ríos
In this poem, Ríos implies that we give to one another, whether we directly benefit or not. Why is it important to keep giving, even if we end up wounded or feel that there was no point?
How can giving be both loud and quiet, big and small? What do you think the poet means when he says that generosity can be like “diamond in wood-nails”?
Toward the poem’s end, Ríos says that when we each give what we have to offer, we all come up with something that is “greater from the difference.” How so? Does what he’s saying here apply to any current political situations?
Invitation for Writing and Reflection: What are some of the many small and large ways that you give to others on a daily basis, loved ones and strangers alike?
“Compost Happens” by Laura Grace Weldon
Weldon describes how kitchen scraps turn back into roses, birdsong, and eggs. How else does nature remind us that everything changes, and “nothing is lost”?
What are some of the images that stand out to you in this poem, and why?
Do you think the poet is urging us to embrace difficult emotions like shame or sorrow? How might they eventually come back to us as wisdom or gratitude?
Invitation for Writing and Reflection: What experiences (shame, sorrow, anger, regret) would you “compost” if you could? You might begin each new sentence with the phrase, “I’d compost” and see where that leads as you practice trusting that no feeling is ever wasted.
“Gratitude List” by Laura Foley
In this poem, Foley seems to be describing a family vacation. How does the repeating phrase “praise be” add to the power of the poem?
The word “praise” is usually associated with religious contexts. How would you define praise?
Even though the poem unfolds as a gratitude list, how does Foley bring us more deeply into these moments with her choice of specific images?
Invitation for Writing and Reflection: Describe a particular time in your own life—a vacation perhaps, or just a lazy Sunday—for which you felt deeply grateful. See if you can recreate all the vivid details from that day, and you might start by using the same phrase, “Praise be,” to begin each new sentence.
“Everybody Made Soups” by Lisa Coffman
Many of us make soups throughout winter to bring nourishment and warmth to the long days. What brings gratitude and comfort to you during the winter months or during challenging times in your life?
Which descriptions of food in the poem particularly stand out to you?
How does Coffman suggest that the act of making a soup is somehow redeeming, making use of all the leftovers to create that “simmered light”?
Invitation for Writing and Reflection: This poem seems reminiscent of the Danish word hygge (pronounced “hoo-ga”), which refers to something that offers a quality of coziness, comfort, and well-being. What gives you hygge in the depths of winter, or on days when you feel especially dull?
“Eagle Poem” by Joy Harjo
How is Harjo, writing from the perspective of a Native American, inviting us to widen our definition of prayer in this poem?
What are some of the ways her images tie us to the natural world, and those “circles of motion” of which she implies we are all a part?
What do you think Harjo means when she urges readers to “open your whole self . . . to one whole voice that is you”? How does this poem-prayer ultimately become an expression of gratitude for the blessing of life?
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sp; Invitation for Writing and Reflection: Toward the middle of the poem, Harjo describes the eagle she saw one Sunday morning above a river and says the vision “swept our hearts clean / with sacred wings.” In conversation or in your journal, describe a similar experience you’ve had with the natural world, which felt sacred and cleansing to you.
Poet Biographies
Lahab Assef Al-Jundi was born and raised in Damascus, Syria. After graduating from the University of Texas in Austin with a degree in electrical engineering, he discovered his passion for writing and published his first poetry collection, A Long Way, in 1985. His latest collection is No Faith at All (Pecan Grove Press, 2014). He lives in San Antonio.
Ellen Bass is a chancellor of the Academy of American Poets and author, most recently, of Indigo (Copper Canyon Press, 2020). Her books include Like a Beggar (2014), The Human Line (2007), and Mules of Love (BOA Editions, 2002), which won the Lambda Literary Award. She coedited (with Florence Howe) the first major anthology of women’s poetry, No More Masks! (Doubleday, 1973), and founded poetry workshops at the Salinas Valley State Prison and the Santa Cruz jails.
Grace Bauer is the author of five collections of poems, plus several chapbooks. Unholy Heart: New & Selected Poems is forthcoming from the University of Nebraska Press/Backwaters.
George Bilgere’s collections include Blood Pages (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018), Imperial, The White Museum, Haywire, The Good Kiss, Big Bang, and The Going. Bilgere has received the New Ohio Review Editor’s Choice Poetry Award, the Midland Authors Prize, the May Swenson Poetry Award, a Pushcart Prize, a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, a Fulbright Fellowship, a Witter Bynner Fellowship, and the Cleveland Arts Prize. His work has appeared in Poetry, Kenyon Review, Ploughshares, Southern Review, Best American Poetry, Georgia Review, Hopkins Quarterly, and elsewhere. He teaches at John Carroll University in Cleveland, Ohio.