the first quiet of the morning by Maya Stein

Don’t spend it on the stack of mail, the phone call,
the mounting inventory of groceries. Resist
the finished wash cycle and the dishes clamoring for clean-up.
Ignore the pileup by the front door, the mess left in the wake
of the weekend. These things carry the patience and constancy of bedrock.
Not the first quiet of the morning. It is thin and needy, hungry for your touch.
You will miss it when it goes, siphoning out the way it does, toppled
by the weight of all your noisy urgencies, those lists mortaring your day together.
This for you, this sweet and brief emptiness, this desert island, this nest nesting
your inevitable flight. Hold your wings still. Don’t go just yet.

the first quiet of the morning

As soon as I read this title, and being a fan of Maya Stein’s work, I was in. It’s that ‘first quiet’ that I feel viscerally, so ephemeral yet it fills me with joyful aliveness and a sense of belonging in this world. Her admonitions not to squander that precious time with mail (in my own case email) strike a chord. There will always be laundry and unwashed dishes, messes that require our attention. These things carry the patience and constancy of bedrock. Oh yes, they will wait for us, solid in their faithfulness.

But that early morning quiet not so; it is hungry for your touch and will not last. You will miss it when it goes – that is, if you even realize what you have missed. It slips away, overtaken by the weight of all your noisy urgencies – listen to me! me first! they call to us, all those lists mortaring your day together. This is how it goes, is it not? The next ‘to-do’ demanding your response.

Pay attention she is reminding us, this sweet and brief emptiness is there for us in that first quiet of the morning. Don’t miss this respite, this nest nesting / your inevitable flight. Inevitable, but don’t go just yet, be still, let the pleasure of this fleeting time fill you and set a course for your day. I’ve always loved those priceless moments before the daily routines begin and I’m loving this poetic reminder not to miss them. Don’t go just yet.

Skating by Kate Sorbara

Some winter nights we skated on the pond.
The milky way above, the ice its own
kind of milky mass below our blades.
Our hands and feet got cold, then colder.
Cloudy angels flew from our mouths.
Stars haloed everyone.
Sometimes we shouted and played red rover
or found an old shoe or a hockey puck
to play a cobbled game. Sometimes we circled
without a word, listening to the quiet
frosty darkness. Now and then
there was a thunderous crack from somewhere
far below and you couldn’t but quake
and wonder at the deep on either side.

Skating

I remember now, skating on a lake near where I grew up, feet numb but exhilarated to be out in the cold at night, so this poem speaks to me. It may not resonate with you, but I hope that you might at least get some of the feeling it evokes. Sorbara skillfully curates such clear images that even if you have never skated, you just might feel yourself gliding across the ice.

She sets the scene with the milky way above, the ice its own kind of milky mass below our blades. Hands and feet getting colder, while cloudy angels flew from our mouths. I delight in such images that make me wish I might have thought of them myself. I can hear the shouts of children playing red rover, calling someone over to our side, and of course, the ubiquitous pick-up hockey with no real rules, just lots of enthusiasm.

Then there are the times without words, listening to the quiet / frosty darkness. If you’ve ever heard thick ice cracking, you’ll know what she means about the thunderous crack from somewhere / far below and the heart-stopping sense that the ice might give way to the freezing waters. I’m particularly taken by her ending, how you couldn’t but quake / and wonder at the deep on either side. She offers the possibility of a depth above as well as below that hadn’t occurred to me as a child but which rings true now. Perhaps one of these winter nights you will experience some of this yourself, and if not, you will at least have this poem.

i am running into a new year Lucille Clifton

i am running into a new year
and the old years blow back
like a wind
that i catch in my hair
like strong fingers like
all my old promises and
it will be hard to let go
of what i said to myself
about myself
when i was sixteen and
twentysix and thirtysix
even thirtysix but
i am running into a new year
and i beg what i love and
i leave to forgive me

i am running into a new year

We are already into the second week of this new year, yet there is still room for another poem celebrating this fresh beginning. I wish you could hear this spoken by my dear friend Laura with such heart that you could not fail to be stirred, but since you cannot, do read it aloud yourself to get the effect.

Clifton gives her words movement by choosing to say she is running, and the old years blow back / like a wind / that i catch in my hair. Surely you can feel that sensation of wind in your hair like strong fingers like / all my old promises. Ah, the old promises we make to ourselves, to change, to do better, to be better. She knows that it will be hard to let go / of what i said to myself / about myself, those well meaning intentions or resolutions, that we rarely keep.

She speaks to the promises she made to her sixteen and twentysix and thirtysix year old self, even thirtysix – what about even sixtysix or any age you are now, all the selves we once were? She is running toward the new year and i beg what i love and / i leave to forgive me. Such a powerful incantation, to the leaving behind of old beliefs and intentions that seemed so true at the time, ready for what is new and right for her going forward. What do you need to let go of? What are you running toward in your life?

Blessing for the New Year by Kayleen Asbo

As the hours of darkness begin to slowly wane from the winter sky,
so too may the fearful places of your heart unclench their grasp on your life.
As the presence of light begins to grow with greater sureness with each passing day,
may your own courage blossom to open more brightly to truth and love.

Let this be the year that you turn off the television and silence the talk radio chatter
in order to pick up the writing pen, the paintbrush,
and watch the candle slowly burn.

May this be the year that you delight
in seeing how much joy you can extravagantly spread.
May you discover just how much beauty you can recklessly shower
upon this thirsty world.

May this be the year that you tune both the dusty piano in the corner
and the inner listening of your care-worn heart
so that both can play in harmony with the chorus of creation.

May you break the invisible yardstick of impossible expectations
and learn that just as you are,
you are enough.
May this be the year that you cease trying to march to an imagined ideal
and, instead, wrap your arms around the messy wonder your life really is,
hold it close
and do the tango.

Let this be the year you befriend your soul in its radical particularity,
not forsaking it yet again for the bland demands and cravings of the masses.
Instead, may you elope with the wildness of your own true calling,
marry your soul to its deepest longings and invite the hungry world to the
wedding feast.

As the hours of darkness begin to slowly wane from the winter sky,
so too may the fearful places of your heart unclench their grasp on your life.
As the presence of light begins to grow with greater sureness with each passing day,
may your own courage blossom to open more brightly to truth and love.


Blessing for the New Year

Each time I read this poem about the new year, I am struck by how unlike conventional resolutions it is, with its gentle invitations to allow new possibilities with the slow waning of darkness. Asbo invites us to find delight in seeing how much joy you can extravagantly spread, in discovering how much beauty you can recklessly shower / upon this thirsty world. Extravagant joy, reckless beauty - oh yes!

She invites us to tune in to the inner listening of your care-worn heart, to abandon those impossible expectations so that you can learn that just as you are, / you are enough. What would that be like? To befriend your soul in its radical particularity, to elope with the wildness of your own true calling. What do you think of this idea, that you could embrace the messy wonder your life really is?

I think my favourite invitation is to marry your soul to its deepest longings and invite the hungry world to the / wedding feast. Now that would be something to celebrate, not just for you, but for this hungry, thirsty world. If you knew what your deepest longings are, how would this year be different? What if you are enough, just as you are?