What to Do by Joyce Sutphen

Wake up early, before the lights come on
in the houses on a street that was once
a farmer’s field at the edge of a marsh.

Wander from room to room, hoping to find
words that could be enough to keep the soul
alive, words that might be useful or kind

in a world that is more wasteful and cruel
every day. Remind us that we are
like grass that fades, fleeting clouds in the sky,

and then give us just one of those moments
when we were paying attention, when we gave
up everything to see the world in

a grain of sand or to behold
a rainbow in the sky, the heart
leaping up.

What to Do

This is the kind of advice which I am always eager to hear, from a poet who has a way of expressing it unlike the directive voices of those who say they know with certainty what to do. Wake up early, she says, to greet the day before others rise. Wander from room to room, as one might when one is unsure of what could be enough to keep the soul / alive; when we are searching for words that might be useful or kind. Because kindness, I believe, is always necessary in a world that is more wasteful and cruel / every day. And always possible, the Dalai Lama tells us.

She reminds us that we are as ephemeral as grass, as clouds, and yet, we are given just one of those moments / when we were paying attention. One of those moments when we see the world in / a grain of sand as William Blake wrote over 200 years ago, a reminder that we are all connected to the natural world. And in those moments of paying attention, there it is, the heart / leaping up. You know what that feels like, don’t you.

Really, that’s all it takes, a brief moment of awareness to see past the cruelty, without words, and feel our heart respond. What to do in the moment can be that simple if we allow it to be.

Summer Arithmetic by Maya Stein

A volume of seawater, waded up to at the ankles, equals let’s take it slow. A ripe peach,

sliced into quadrants over the kitchen sink, equals there is more than enough. Kittens,

asleep on the shower tiles, equals listen to your body. The first of the tomato flowers

plus an afternoon downpour equal you are safe, my love. Sweat equal work times

patience. A blade of grass equals work times patience. Boats clustered in a makeshift

marina equals all is not lost. Sprinklers and Fiona equals the brief disappearance

of worry. The neighborhood dogs times two or three equals you have not lost your touch.

Breakfast waffles plus humidity equals stop feeling so guilty. A full moon

divided by four equals a full moon. Your father’s last birthday times time

equals infinity.

Summer Arithmetic

The subtitle to this delightful poem is or: when it’s too hot to think. We’ve had some of those too hot and humid days so far this summer (not complaining) and I’m intrigued by what Stein has done with her concrete observations of the outside world and her felt inner sense of these summer experiences. She is a Maine poet, living on the coast so she starts with wading in seawater, equating it to let’s take it slow. A sliced peach equals there is more than enough. Already I’m with her, immersed in these evocative responses to summer.

Kittens, tomato flowers, sweat, grass, boats, sprinklers, dogs, surely you have known all of these things in your own way. Yet perhaps your particular math has not added up to listen to your body; you are safe, my love; patience; all is not lost; the disappearance of worry, you have not lost your touch. The addition of these simple things is more than the sum of its parts.

Breakfast waffles without guilt and a full moon divided by four are wonderful equations. But the one that touched me most deeply is the last: Your father’s birthday times time equals infinity. Loss is both a subtraction and a multiplication – the way someone we love echoes through our lives long past their time on earth.

This isn’t the kind of arithmetic I learned in school but I much prefer it. Just letting the mind float on the summer air, making unexpected connections. Try it yourself. And check her out for other of her ten line poems. https://mayastein.com/poetry

Promise by Barbara Crooker

This day is an open road

stretching out before you.

Roll down the windows.

Step into your life, as if it were a fast car.

Even in industrial parks,

trees are covered with white blossoms,

festive as brides, and the air is soft

as a well-washed shirt on your arms.

The grass has turned implausibly green.

Tomorrow, the world will begin again,

another fresh start. The blue sky stretches,

shakes out its tent of light. Even dandelions glitter

in the lawn, a handful of golden change.

Promise

So often promises can be unrealistic and unfulfilled – you know the kind: I promise to finish the dishes later; I promise we’ll take that trip around the world some day; and so on. But this is a promise that is real, grounded in the everyday, this day, the one stretching out before you. This is a promise that’s an invitation: Step into your life, as if it were a fast car, windows down, music playing.

The poet invites us to notice the blossoming trees festive as brides, to be found even in unlikely places, to notice the softness of the air, like a well-washed shirt on your arms – can’t you just feel that? Tomorrow and each day to follow, the world will begin again, with its implausibly green grass, the blue sky with its tent of light. And look at the common dandelions scattered across the lawn, a handful of golden change.

Sometimes it takes a poet to remind us to open ourselves to all that the world has to offer when there is much that we don’t wish to see or hear. But that invitation to step into your life can be just the reminder we need to notice the miracles all around us. Each day holds promise; I promise!

Arriving Again and Again Without Noticing by Linda Gregg

I remember all the different kinds of years
Angry, or brokenhearted, or afraid.
I remember feeling like that
walking up the mountain along the dirt path
to my broken house on the island.
And long years of waiting in Massachusetts.
The winter walking and hot summer walking.
I finally fell in love with all of it:
dirt, night, rock and far views.
It’s strange that my heart is full
now as my desire was then.

Arriving Again and Again Without Noticing

It is the last two lines of this poem that grabbed my attention – how what we can long for in our younger years can become what fills our hearts later in life. Those years of being angry, or brokenhearted, or afraid, who has not known such times? The feeling of always walking uphill, of being isolated as on an island, in a house broken by any manner of things and long years of waiting though we don’t even know for what.

Then, I finally fell in love with all of it: dirt, night, rock and far views – the grit, the darkness, the hard places. There comes a time when it is possible, though we may not realize it, having come to the same place over and over, that our longing transforms. That last line is so poignant to me: It’s strange that my heart is full / now as my desire was then. What I wanted then, thought I wanted, is now before my eyes when I finally notice.

May we each arrive at that surprising place where we notice at last the gifts of our lives and feel the fullness of our hearts.