The Happiest Day by Linda Pastan

It was early May, I think
a moment of lilac or dogwood
when so many promises are made
it hardly matters if a few are broken.
My mother and father still hovered
in the background, part of the scenery
like the houses I had grown up in,
and if they would be torn down later
that was something I knew
but didn’t believe. Our children were asleep
or playing, the youngest as new
as the new smell of the lilacs,
and how could I have guessed
their roots were shallow
and would be easily transplanted.
I didn’t even guess that I was happy.
The small irritations that are like salt
on melon were what I dwelt on,
though in truth they simply
made the fruit taste sweeter.
So we sat on the porch
in the cool morning, sipping
hot coffee. Behind the news of the day—
strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere—
I could see the top of your dark head
and thought not of public conflagrations
but of how it would feel on my bare shoulder.
If someone could stop the camera then…
if someone could only stop the camera
and ask me: are you happy?
Perhaps I would have noticed
how the morning shone in the reflected
color of lilac. Yes, I might have said
and offered a steaming cup of coffee.

The Happiest Day

Well, it’s late May but the scent of lilacs and other flowering trees is much more than a promise. Our parents, the house/s we grew up in, our children – all this such a part of our everyday lives that we rarely stop to consider if we were happy, focusing instead on the small irritations that are like salt on melon even though they simply made the fruit taste sweeter. Now there is a memorable, sensory image – can you taste it?

The news of the day, the bottomless litany of strikes, wars, fires and now of course, covid-related stories, can keep us fully occupied. And yet, if someone could only stop the camera / and ask me: are you happy? How often do we ask ourselves that? Would you notice how the morning shone in the reflected / color of lilac? Would that not be a definition of happiness itself?

After reading this poem yesterday, I noticed a sensation, difficult to describe even to myself, that was certainly contentment, an ephemeral burst of happiness. This is how happiness is – fleeting, transitory, yet real. Would I have noticed it if not for the question? I believe it is there more often than not if I simply turn my attention toward the color of lilacs, the song of the mating cardinals, the children playing on the street.

Are you happy? May I offer you a steaming cup of coffee?

When Giving is All We Have by Alberto Rios

                                              One river gives
                                              Its journey to the next.

We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.

We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.

We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—

Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,
Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.

Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and again:

Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine.

You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.
Together we are simple green. You gave me

What you did not have, and I gave you
What I had to give—together, we made

Something greater from the difference.

When Giving is All We Have

I first heard this poem spoken in Ireland at a gathering of lovers of poetry I attended and it has stayed with me since. I’ve long been intrigued by the inexorable twinning of giving and receiving, how one cannot exist without the other.

Rios speaks of the many elements of giving. We give because we received, we did not, we were changed, we were not, we are better for it or wounded by it. Giving has many faces with an old story we return to over and again.

When we each give what we have, blue for you, yellow for me, together we are simple green. Simple, yes. We give what we do not have, what we do have to give. Surely you know those times you have given when you thought you had nothing to offer. And together, we made / Something greater from the difference.

This is how it is every day. We give, we receive, hand to hand – mine to yours, yours to mine, really two sides of the same coin. And each time, something new is created. Try it and see if that isn’t true – simple green, like the colour of spring that surrounds us now. And isn’t it delectable.

The Word That is a Prayer by Ellery Akers

One thing you know when you say it:
all over the earth people are saying it with you;
a child blurting it out as the seizures take her,
a woman reciting it on a cot in a hospital.
What if you take a cab through the Tenderloin:
at a street light, a man in a wool cap,
yarn unraveling across his face, knocks at the window;
he says, Please.
By the time you hear what he’s saying,
the light changes, the cab pulls away,
and you don’t go back, though you know
someone just prayed to you the way you pray.
Please: a word so short
it could get lost in the air
as it floats up to God like the feather it is,
knocking and knocking, and finally
falling back to earth as rain,
as pellets of ice, soaking a black branch,
collecting in drains, leaching into the ground,
and you walk in that weather every day.

The Word That is a Prayer

What is the word that people all over the earth are saying with you? Did you guess it right away? I didn’t on first reading but as soon as I read Please, it caught my heart and the poem has lingered long in my mind. In any language it can hold a similar meaning – a request for attention, for assistance, a petition.

The child, the woman, the man knocking at the window though you don’t go back, though someone just prayed to you the way you pray. How many times in a day do you silently or aloud make that request no matter to what being you pray, even if you don’t believe, don’t even call it prayer.

This small weightless word that could float up to God like the feather it is, asking for whatever we want to be or not, before it falls back to earth as rain, as ice, and you walk in that weather every day. Because this is what we do with that one-word prayer, offering it up each time we hope to be heard.

I had a lovely exchange with Ellery Akers last week in which she generously offered for me to post this poem to share with you. This is one of several on her website which I encourage you to visit. https://elleryakers.com

Day Dream by A.S. J. Tessimond

One day people will touch and talk perhaps
easily,
And loving be natural as breathing and warm as
sunlight,
And people will untie themselves, as string is unknotted,
Unfold and yawn and stretch and spread their fingers,
Unfurl, uncurl like seaweed returned to the sea,
And work will be simple and swift
as a seagull flying,
And play will be casual and quiet
as a seagull settling,
And the clocks will stop, and no one will wonder
or care or notice,
And people will smile without reason,
Even in winter, even in the rain.

Day Dream

This poem was written by the British poet Tessimond in the first half of the last century and introduced to me by my dear friend John Hillman a few years ago. It has a timeless quality, sounding as relevant today, perhaps more so, than when it was written.

I love the imagery of people untying themselves as string is unknotted, unfolding, unfurling – all the language of tightly curled bodies as we perhaps find ourselves now. Uncurled, like seaweed returned to the sea, which if you have ever seen it, is so liquid and languorous and supple.

Work will be simple and swift, play will be casual and quiet. Imagine. Without struggle, just as natural and normal as breathing. And the clocks will stop because we will not need them – time will take on a new dimension.

And people will smile without reason as we do when we are at ease with ourselves, when we feel part of the larger community of this world. Even in winter, even in the rain – because weather will not define us, will not inhibit us.

And so, this is his daydream. Perhaps it may be yours also – to live more effortlessly, as I believe we long to live. Perhaps it is a dream we will embody as we move forward into our new unknown world. Regardless, it is a daydream worth dreaming.