The Facts of Life by Pádraig Ó Tuama

That you were born
and you will die.

That you will sometimes love enough
and sometimes not.

That you will lie
if only to yourself.

That you will get tired.

That you will learn most from the situations
you did not choose.

That there will be some things that move you
more than you can say.

That you will live
that you must be loved.

That you will avoid questions most urgently in need of
your attention.

That you began as the fusion of a sperm and an egg
of two people who once were strangers
and may well still be.

That life isn’t fair.
That life is sometimes good
and sometimes even better than good.

That life is often not so good.

That life is real
and if you can survive it, well,
survive it well
with love
and art
and meaning given
where meaning’s scarce.

That you will learn to live with regret.
That you will learn to live with respect.

That the structures that constrict you
may not be permanently constricting.

That you will probably be okay.

That you must accept change
before you die
but you will die anyway.

So you might as well live
and you might as well love.
You might as well love.
You might as well love.

The Facts of Life

You may be familiar with this Irish poet through his connection with On Being and his curated collection of 50 poems in Poetry Unbound. Here he sets out a series of facts about life as he knows them, each beginning with ‘that’, That you were born / and you will die. That you will sometimes love enough / and sometimes not, but perhaps most importantly, that you must be loved.

That you will learn most from the situations / you did not choose, perhaps the truest statement of all for me. That there will be some things that move you / more than you can say, and there will be things you need to pay attention to that you will avoid. So many true statements that cause me to pause and reflect; maybe you will recognize yourself in some of them.

He reminds us that life is not fair, ranging from sometimes better than good, to, often not so good. We can survive this life well, given love and art and meaning, with regret and respect, and ultimately That you will probably be okay. Whether or not you can accept change before you die, you will die anyway – blunt but accurate. Given this, he says you might as well live / and you might as well love, followed by two more repetitions of You might as well love. It’s those last two lines that linger in my mind after each reading of this poem, a declaration I cannot argue with, nor do I want to.

School Prayer by Diane Ackerman

In the name of the daybreak
and the eyelids of morning
and the wayfaring moon
and the night when it departs,

I swear I will not dishonor
my soul with hatred,
but offer myself humbly
as a guardian of nature,
as a healer of misery,
as a messenger of wonder,
as an architect of peace.

In the name of the sun and its mirrors
and the day that embraces it
and the cloud veils drawn over it
and the uttermost night
and the male and the female
and the plants bursting with seed
and the crowning seasons
of the firefly and the apple,

I will honor all life
—wherever and in whatever form
it may dwell—on Earth my home,
and in the mansions of the stars.

School Prayer

Akerman opens this poem with the phrase, in the name of, pledging her allegiance to daybreak and the eyelids of morning / and the wayfaring moon, such eloquent phrases to describe the dawn and the moon as it travels across the night sky. She will not dishonor / my soul with hatred, but instead offers herself as guardian, healer, messenger, as an architect of peace. These are the ways she intends to focus her attention on living her life.

She invokes in the name of for a second time, the sun and the day that embraces it, as well as the uttermost night, again spanning the whole of time as we know it. She speaks to the masculine and the feminine, and the plants bursting with seed, to everything that exists in this world, even as small as the firefly and the apple.

Lest we be unclear, she declares her intention to honor all of life in whatever form / it may dwell, nothing too small or insignificant to be overlooked or disdained. This prayer for Earth my home is a prayer for all beings, an aspiration, and now I am wondering if she chose the title, School Prayer, imagining if children spoke this daily at school, what effect it might have on the larger world. Just wondering.

Love Poem, with Birds by Barbara Kingsolver

They are your other flame. Your world
begins and ends with the dawn chorus,
a plaint of saw-whet owl, and in between,
the seven different neotropical warblers
you will see on your walk to the mailbox.
It takes a while. I know now not to worry.

Once I resented your wandering eye that 
flew away mid-sentence, chasing any raft
of swallows. I knew, as we sat on the porch 
unwinding the cares of our days, you were 
listening to me through a fine mesh of oriole,
towhee, flycatcher. I said it was like kissing
through a screen door: You’re not all here.

But who could be more present than a man
with the patience of sycamores, showing me
the hummingbird’s nest you’ve spied so high 
in a tree, my mortal eye can barely make out 
the lichen-dabbed knot on an elbow of branch.
You will know the day her nestlings leave it.

The wonder is that such an eye, that lets not
even the smallest sparrow fall from notice,
beholds me also. That I might walk the currents
of our days with red and golden feathers
in my hair, my plain tongue laced with music.
That we, the birds and I, may be text and
illumination in your book of common prayer.

Love Poem, with Birds

You may know Kingsolver more as a novelist (I highly recommend her latest, Demon Copperhead), but she is clearly also a gifted poet. With an eye for a love poem on this Valentine’s day, this one charmed me with its tender ode to her husband. They are your other flame, she begins, that old-fashioned term for a romantic relationship, then introduces us to some of the attractions, the saw-whet owl, the neotropical warblers, you will see on your walk to the mailbox.

She explains how she once resented his wandering eye that / flew away mid-sentence. How it was like kissing / through a screen door, his attention not all there. But, she clarifies: who could be more present than a man / with the patience of sycamores, someone who can spy a hummingbird’s nest high in a tree and who will know the day her nestlings leave it. This is a man who is attuned to the larger, avian world, so present to the moment.

She then marvels that one with such an observant eye, that lets not / even the smallest sparrow fall from notice, sees her too. Now she creates a fanciful image of herself with red and golden feathers in her hair, her plain tongue laced with music. As she walks the currents of our days, she proposes that both she and the birds may be text and / illumination in your book of common prayer. To be both text and illumination, to be seen like that – such a gorgeous expression of the love between these two souls.

Cargo by Greg Kimura

You enter life a ship laden with meaning, purpose and gifts
sent to be delivered to a hungry world.
And as much as the world needs your cargo,
you need to give it away.
Everything depends on this.

But the world forgets its needs,
and you forget your mission,
and the ancestral maps used to guide you
have become faded scrawls on the parchment of dead Pharaohs.
The cargo weighs you heavy the longer it is held
and spoilage becomes a risk.
The ship sputters from port to port and at each you ask:
“Is this the way?”
But the way cannot be found without knowing the cargo,
and the cargo cannot be known without recognizing there is a way,
and it is simply this:
You have gifts.
The world needs your gifts.
You must deliver them.

The world may not know it is starving,
but the hungry know,
and they will find you
when you discover your cargo
and start to give it away.

Cargo

Here is a metaphor to consider: your life a ship, laden with meaning, purpose, and gifts. Makes me think of the old sailing ships crossing the ocean, laden with precious contents. Kimura is clear that the world is hungry for your cargo, that you need to give it away. Everything depends on this. The gravitas of such a statement catches my attention.

If you hold onto it, you become weighted with this cargo and spoilage becomes a risk. You may forget what you carry, lose your way, but, he is reminding us, we each have gifts that are needed in this world. You must deliver them; again this imperative. This is the way we come to recognize our innate wisdom, abilities, strengths, through sharing them with others.

There are those who are hungry for what you have to offer even if the world may not know it is starving. When you come to know what gifts you contain, and start to give it away, the hungry will find you. It can take a lifetime to discover your unique capacities, but when you do and begin to share them, how much richer the world will be. Everything depends on this.