Today by Billy Collins

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.

Today

If ever there was a spring poem that lifts my heart and makes me smile, this could be the one. Billy Collins can catch me off guard in a humorous way. He gives us that perfect day so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze – the kind that makes you want to open all the windows to let it in. Then we go from unlatching the door to the canary’s cage, to wanting to rip the little door from its jamb – suddenly this breezy image is interrupted by a startling, harsher one.

Then he leads us down brick paths through the garden bursting with peonies, a scene so etched in sunlight that you can visualize the flowers, almost smell them. The tone shifts as he suggests one might take a hammer to the glass paperweight, sometimes called a snow-globe, its interior forever fixed in time. Another surprising and destructive suggestion, but which quickly turns, showing us the gift of the release of the inhabitants from their snow-covered cottage.

Now these figures from a frozen world step out, holding hands and squinting, as they walk into this larger dome of blue and white. He brings them to life, these imaginary people, freed from their imprisonment on this glorious day, as any one of us may feel after the confinement of winter. And all this, he offers, is just that kind of day, one of those perfect spring days we can give ourselves over to, simply enjoying the beauty, feeling the exuberance. It just might be today.

I Keep the Window Open by James Crews

Just standing at the window, looking out

at the pink crowns of vetch vines

that I have let overtake the lawn,

along with the daisies, and the wild

black-eyed Susans and a hundred others 

I can’t name, thriving where the world 

would rather see neatly clipped grass.

But what fun is that for crickets and bees

and the song sparrow who occasionally

lands on the very tip of some stalk

of overgrown weed gone to seed?

And don’t I have more pressing things

to accomplish besides standing here

like a king surveying his ragged empire,

noticing the tiny spider I’ve let live

in a corner of the window sill, his

intricate web having trapped a single

writhing ant he is just now wrapping

in silk for later, as I would love to

save every intact moment like this.

Listen, I have stood at the bedside

of my father, waiting for the good breath

to leave his weary body, I have watched

my mother turn blue with the struggle

to draw air into her ravaged lungs,

and keep it there. Life’s too fragile

to waste on money or importance,

handing over the hours that will never

be returned to us. And so I stand 

for as long as I wish, keeping the window 

open, so I can feel the ozone-scented 

breeze blowing across my body.

I Keep the Window Open

As you look out your window in this early flowering season, what grows in your yard – common vetch blossoms? bright buttons of dandelion? Do you host tiny flowers of unnamed weeds thriving where the world / would rather see neatly clipped grass? Yet those mown lawns are not so good for the crickets and bees, the song sparrow resting on an overgrown weed gone to seed. Crews, like a king surveying his ragged empire is happy to notice the spider wrapping an ant in its silk, just as he would love to / save every intact moment like this.

Watching his father waiting for the good breath / to leave his weary body, his mother struggle / to draw air into her ravaged lungs, he is acutely aware of life’s fragility. There is no time to waste handing over the hours that will never / be returned to us – each precious hour unrepeatable. There is much beauty in the wild growth of untamed gardens, long grass, and never enough hours to allow complacence for it all. And so he stands, as we each can, by an open window so I can feel the ozone-scented / breeze blowing across my body.

In this poem is another thoughtful poet reminding us to take time to smell the clean pungency of the wild, to savour the hours we have been given, those intact moments. One of the simplest ways to do this, as he says, is to keep the window open, to receive the world as it is. Just reading this reminds me of what matters, to know how I want to spend my time, to let the weeds have their place. Such simple wisdom.

Inventory of Essential Distractions by Alfred K Lamotte

Titmouse at the thistle feeder.
Wing-beat of geese 

navigating by the moon.
Exultation of a turquoise moth
who will die before sunrise.
The baby’s ancient gaze
from a supermarket shopping cart.

Honor the essential distractions

that make you whole.

Gifted by the mist at dawn,

shards of sunbeam trembling

in the open fingers of a fern.

Elegant cracks in a hand-made tea bowl.

Choir upon choir of empyrean petals

in a fallen camellia.

Are we not redeemed by the sure

sweet vision of particulars?

What else is faith?

Glistening spider’s web 

in the withering hyssop.
The motionless explosion of a rose.
Every flame-tipped thing conspiring 

in a ceaseless whisper of revelation,
“Yes, you are here.”
Waves dissolving on sand.
Silence between raindrops
This breath.

Inventory of Essential Distractions

The notion of essential distractions was irresistible to me, given that our culture mainly teaches us that distractions ought to be avoided in favour of doing our work (whatever that might be). It wasn’t long before I was enthralled by the possibilities Lamotte offers as necessary to our days. I don’t know the chickadee-sized titmouse but I do recognize the sound of geese returning in spring, navigating by the moon. The brief life of a moth, the baby’s ancient gaze – these are the fleeting moments given to us.

Honor the essential distractions / that make you whole. He exhorts us to notice these transient opportunities to experience beauty: dawn mist, trembling shards of sunbeam, the aesthetics of cracked pottery, choir upon choir of empyrean petals. He asks if our lives are not justified by the sure / sweet vision of particulars – are these not the details that make our lives worthwhile, that give us hope and trust when so much else creates despair?

What is more exquisite than a spider’s web illuminated by a ray of sunshine, unless it is the motionless explosion of a rose as it comes into bloom. All these gorgeous diversions from our everyday existence conspire to tell us “Yes, you are here”. In such moments, we know we are truly alive, each focused breath essential, making us whole. Enjoy your own inventory!

The Life of a Day by Tom Hennen

Like people or dogs, each day is unique and has
its own personality quirks which can easily be seen
if you look closely. But there are so few days as
compared to people, not to mention dogs, that it
would be surprising if a day were not a hundred
times more interesting than most people. But
usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless
they are wildly nice, like autumn ones full of red
maple trees and hazy sunlight, or if they are grimly
awful ones in a winter blizzard that kills the lost
traveler and bunches of cattle. For some reason
we like to see days pass, even though most of us
claim we don’t want to reach our last one for a
long time. We examine each day before us with
barely a glance and say, no, this isn’t one I’ve been
looking for, and wait in a bored sort of way for
the next, when, we are convinced, our lives will
start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by per-
fectly well-adjusted, as some days are, with the
right amounts of sunlight and shade, and a light
breeze scented with a perfume made from the
mixture of fallen apples, corn stubble, dry oak
leaves, and the faint odor of last night’s meander-
ing skunk.

The Life of a Day

This prose poem caught my attention for its simple yet universal message that I, for one, cannot hear too often: pay attention to the uniqueness of each day. His comparison of people and dogs to days, each with their own personality is hard to argue. The poet points out that there are so few days relative to the number of people, much less dogs, it / would be surprising if a day were not a hundred / times more interesting than most people. Think of the possibilities.

And yet, he says, usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless they are full of red / maple trees and hazy sunlight, or perhaps they are grimly / awful ones in a winter blizzard. We want our days to be outstanding even though we also seem to want them to pass while claiming we don't want to reach our last one for a / long time. Yet we often meet each day saying no, this isn't one I've been / looking for, and wait for the next, believing then our lives will / start for real.

Is it possible you have waited too often for days to pass, to be finished for whatever reason made it less than perfect for you? Meanwhile, he reminds us, this day is going by perfectly well-adjusted - a day with the right amount of sun and shade and raindrops, the scent of apples or flowering trees, dry leaves or freshly mowed grass, and even the faint odor of last night's meandering skunk. These are words to remind me not to wish my days away or be bored by what I perceive as sameness. There is always something to notice, to delight in if I turn my attention to the small details. Each day has its own life.

Because These Failures Are My Job by Alison Luterman

This morning I failed to notice the pearl-gray moment

just before sunrise when everything lightens;

failed also to find bird song under the grinding of garbage trucks,

and later, walking through woods, to stop thinking, thinking,

for even five consecutive steps. Then there was the failure to name

the exact shade of blue overhead, not sapphire, not azure, not delft,

to savor the soft squelch of pine needles underfoot.

Later I found the fork raised halfway to my mouth

while I was still chewing the last untasted bite,

and so it went, until finally, wading into sleep’s thick undertow,

I felt myself drift from dream to dream,

forever failing to comprehend where I am falling from or to:

this blurred life with only moments caught

in attention’s loose sieve —

tiny pearls fished out of oblivion’s sea,

laid out here as offering or apology or thank you

Because These Failures Are My Job

I find failure is such a loaded word, fraught as it is with blame, stigma, shame. Ours is a culture that wants success, achievement, perfection, and which leaves us questioning ourselves when we fall short. But what if our flaws are more accurately reflections of our humanity. I appreciate how the failures Luterman writes of are ways she works to pay closer attention to her daily life. How she failed to notice the pearl-gray moment / just before sunrise, missing the birdsong overpowered by noisy garbage trucks, the failure to stop thinking, thinking, / for even five consecutive steps.

How often do you name the shade of the sky’s blue or savor the soft squelch of pine needles underfoot? I am especially guilty of raising my fork while still chewing the last untasted bite. So many opportunities to notice what is around us, to neglect the same. Easy to criticize these omissions of attention given the continuous flow to our senses, failing to comprehend where I am falling from or to. Yet she is aware of those moments caught / in attention’s loose sieve, such a brilliant metaphor to show how easily things fall through our awareness.

In this blurred life, so much unseen, she reminds us that there are moments, tiny pearls fished out of oblivion’s sea. We are not completely insensitive to the world around us – those tiny pearls of awareness are laid out here as offering or apology or thank you. No fault she seems to be saying, just human nature with small windows of opportunity, possibilities to pay attention. Offering, apology or thank you – take your pick. Just know those pearls are there for you.

Daffodils by Gail Onion

Each spring daffodils like a secret happiness

Are everywhere again as if they did not care

That the world is so messed up

Or are depressed by the tragedies of last year

We admonish the bright inquisitive faces.

Don’t you realize you are arriving in a drought

Global warming, even extinctions.

The next day even more daffodils crowd

The edges of fences, careen across a field.

They seem to lack a sense of trepidation

Or have self-esteem issues or are intimidated

By changes in weather or a hostile environment.

They are the loyal canines of the plant world

Assured that everyone is glad to see them,

Like your dog in whose eyes you know

You are loved more than you believe

Anyone could. We have to admit we have longed

To look into the eyes of flowers

To ask how they do it

So free to share with equanimity

Their finite beauty

Without hesitation

No questions asked, no disturbing borders.

I am your flower they say

You are my flower they say

We are here for you.

Springtime may just be

Humanity’s other

best friend.

Daffodils

After our four day introduction to spring (or was that spring itself?), the temperatures have returned to normal but the greening has begun, the flower buds eagerly stretching upward. Though I have seen few daffodils in bloom, I smile to hear the poet describe them like a secret happiness. When they arrive at last, they are everywhere, as if they did not notice how messed up this world is: Don’t you realize you are arriving in a drought / Global warming, even extinctions. They pay no mind to that; they are here for beauty.

As more and more daffodils arrive, she suggests they lack a sense of trepidation despite weather (a few snowflakes are drifting through the chilly air now) or a hostile environment. She calls them the loyal canines of the plant world / Assured that everyone is glad to see them. What a terrific metaphor – who has not looked into a faithful dog’s eyes and felt loved more than you believe / Anyone could. Though they cannot wag a tail, they nod their heads enthusiastically in the breeze and yes, we are so glad to see them!

What if we were to look into the eyes of flowers to ask how they share with equanimity / Their finite beauty / Without hesitation. I don’t really care how they do it, No questions asked, no disturbing borders, just that they do, every year. We are here for you they seem to say unequivocally, their sunny faces beaming the constant beauty to be found in the world. Springtime may just be / Humanity’s other / best friend. Personally, I cannot argue with that. You are my flower they say.

Six for Gold by Kate Hanson Foster

When my six-year-old asks me where
he came from—how he, you know,
got inside my belly, he is swinging a broken
tree branch around in the backyard.
Just swinging to feel the air molecules,
to hear the faint whistle of resistance.
The invisible turbulence satisfies something
for both of us—disturbing what you can’t see.
You were a star I took for my own, I say.
But how does it work, he asks, you know,
getting the star into your belly? I rub
my hands together vigorously and then slowly
pull them apart like a wizard commanding
an invisible orb. I tell him to try—
keep rubbing your hands as fast as you can,
and when you are ready, stop—wait
for the energy to arrive between your palms.
He doesn’t know this is just a game, just
our nerves responding to friction. He gently
packs his hands around what he feels, a warm
snowball. I say imagine that energy gathering
into your belly. When you arrived, an old star
collapsed and exploded, and in a huge
blast you landed inside me. He tosses his secret
ball into the sky—it’s gone somewhere
we will never find. Like gold crashing into a rock,
or sinking into the bottom of a river, I say.
I can tell he is no longer listening—his eyes
are back to the branch. I smile and scoop
him up before he can grab it again, tickling
his side to make him giggle. He wiggles
in my arms, laughter bright and bursting,
this boy who came to me like gold.

Six for Gold

I don’t have any six-year-olds in my life currently, but I do remember that age, the constant, sometimes awkward, or unanswerable questions. How this boy got inside his mother’s belly – what child has not wondered that thought aloud? And as he is asking, he is swinging a tree branch around to feel the air molecules, / to hear the faint whistle of resistance. Remember doing that? And how that invisible turbulence satisfies something / for both of us. He disturbs the air which cannot be seen, just as he tries to stir up an answer to what he cannot see or understand.

You were a star I took for my own, the mother/poet answers which inevitably leads to him asking how the star gets into her belly. I’m delighted by this woman’s imaginative response about energy by demonstrating how friction between our palms can result in our nerves perceiving a felt energy. As the child goes along with this, He gently / packs his hands around what he feels, a warm / snowball. I have to stop right there to imagine that paradoxical sensation, a warm snowball. Then she tells him to imagine that energy from an old star collapsing and in a huge / blast you landed inside me.

But now with his private snowball tossed into the sky, Like gold crashing into a rock, / or sinking into the bottom of a river, she can tell he is not listening any longer, his attention returning to the broken branch. So she scoops him up, tickling him, his laughter bright and bursting, holding this wiggling star full of questions and joyful aliveness, reveling in this boy who came to me like gold. The question doesn’t matter any more, nor the answer, just the bright burst of love between mother and child, pure gold.

Good Bones by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine

in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least

fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,

sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

Good Bones

When I first read this poem awhile back, I was intrigued but a bit unclear about the message. But as I reread and reflected on it, I was more and more convinced that there is of course much truth to the line The world is at least / fifty percent terrible, as well as achingly beautiful. The repetition of though I keep this from my children struck a chord with me; the ways I, and others, have tried to protect our children and grandchildren from the terrors of living in this world.

She starts the poem with a simple truth: Life is short, something we cannot comprehend as children for whom the days tend to be long. She does not tell us how she has shortened hers in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways but opens the door for us to consider our own lack of wisdom at times, delicious as it was. Birds and children are inexplicably killed, and for every kind / stranger, there is one who would break you – these are the things she wishes to keep from her children when she is trying to sell them the world.

Her metaphor at the end, how any decent realtor chirps on / about good bones regardless of the superficial appearance of a tired, run-down place is brilliant. This place could be beautiful, / right? She has the eye, the imagination to see the possibility of a better world, and she is inviting us to agree. Finally, she transitions from questioning this proposition to making a strong, declarative statement: You could make this place beautiful. I admit, I was convinced by her argument. It’s a reminder to me to keep my eyes open for the good bones, the other fifty percent.

I’m adding a link to a piece Smith wrote, an excerpt from her new memoir, that gives some intriguing follow up to her poem if you care to read it.

Notice by Steve Kowit

This evening, the sturdy Levis
I wore every day for over a year
& which seemed to the end in perfect condition,
suddenly tore.
How or why I don’t know,
but there it was—a big rip at the crotch.
A month ago my friend Nick
walked off a racquetball court,
showered,
got into his street clothes,
& half-way home collapsed & died.
Take heed you who read this
& drop to your knees now & again
like the poet Christopher Smart
& kiss the earth & be joyful
& make much of your time
& be kindly to everyone,
even to those who do not deserve it.
For although you may not believe it will happen,
you too will one day be gone.
I, whose Levis ripped at the crotch
for no reason,
assure you that such is the case.
Pass it on.

Notice

I first thought of the title Notice as a notification, the type you might see pinned on a bulletin board or telephone pole, but then it struck me that this could be an imperative to pay attention, to notice this moment in your life. I expect most people have owned, if not brand-name Levis, at least well worn jeans that soften with age and washings. And though they seem in perfect condition, there comes a point when How or why I don’t know, there is a sudden irrevocable rip.

Then we hear the story of the poet’s friend Nick after a racquetball game, who showered, changed, & half-way home collapsed & died. These things do happen and we shake our heads, and feel perhaps a guilty gratitude that it was not our turn. Take heed he demands, take notice & drop to your knees now & again, be humble and grateful to be alive. This is a reminder that the time of death is uncertain, so kiss the earth & be joyful / & make much of your time / & be kindly to everyone.

It is clear that the poet was woken up to his life by the sudden death of his friend, and wants others to get the message too. For although you may not believe it will happen, / you too will one day be gone. Just like those jeans that seemed to the end in perfect condition, our bodies too will wear out, so we must be joyful and kindly and use our time well. As the poet says, Pass it on.

Apple Blossoms by Susan Kelly-DeWitt

One evening in winter
when nothing has been enough,
when the days are too short,

the nights too long
and cheerless, the secret
and docile buds of the apple

blossoms begin their quick
ascent to light. Night
after interminable night

the sugars pucker and swell
into green slips, green
silks. And just as you find

yourself at the end
of winter’s long, cold
rope, the blossoms open

like pink thimbles
and that black dollop 
of shine called

bumblebee stumbles in.

Apple Blossoms

I know, technically this is the first day of spring, and though the sun peeks out periodically, the temperature still has the chill of winter in it. So even if I am premature, I go looking for poems celebrating the arrival of spring and find this gem. One evening in winter / when nothing has been enough – sometimes in late winter, this is how it feels, cheerless as she tells us. And yet, one of those evenings, the secret / and docile buds of the apple // blossoms begin their quick / ascent to the light. What a gorgeous image of these unseen buds as they rise inexorably toward the sun’s light.

During these seemingly endless nights, the sugars pucker and swell / into green slips, green / silks. Can’t you just picture these viridescent jewels unfolding? She captures that sense of weariness, of wanting the season to change, of being at the end / of winter’s long, cold /rope. But just then, she rewards us with the promise that the blossoms will open like pink thimbles, tiny delicate flowering cups. And as if that were not enough, that black dollop / of shine called / bumblebee stumbles in. Sigh of contentment. Can’t you just imagine this, even if it’s not happening yet where you are – but it will, a poet told me so.