When You Are Old

 

WHEN YOU ARE OLD by W. B. Yeats 

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

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In celebration of National Poetry Month, I am sharing a poem each day this month -- except for the days I miss. :-)

Any Which Way

 

 

Today's poem, in celebration of National Poetry Month, is DESIDERATA by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble, it's a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Shape Shifting - Opale

 

This video from Opale is fascinating. I found it at SEABLANKET, the gorgeous blog of Chelsea Spear.

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I'm still observing and celebrating Poetry Month, although no longer daily.  What follows is a spectacular piece of writing, one of my favorites. 

 

THE INVITATION by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. . .
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes."

It doesn't interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.


From Oriah's book THE INVITATION (c) 1999. Published by HarperONE, San Francisco. All rights reserved. Presented with permission of the author. www.oriah.org

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Remembering

 

REMEMBERING MY MOTHER SEWING by Marilyn Annucci

I.

Evenings I’d find you
            bent over the dining room table
                        like a surgeon over a disembodied angel. 

 Under five yellow lights
            you would rearrange
                        the wispy wings, pin them 

 to the floral cotton,
            the blue corduroy—
                        the common material our bodies might fit.

 This was the beginning
            of the reconstruction. You worked
                         with a quiet determination,

 the knuckles of your long fingers
            whitening
                        as you applied the tiny teeth

 of the tracing wheel
            against the delicate skin. 
                        Later,

 after your careful unpinning,
            the anticipated sundering
                        and airy uplift—

 forgive me my moments of doubt—
            the mortal fabric
                        would lie there, yes,

 bearing the marks ...

 

 II

 You knew in time                      
             the dress or slacks would grow
                        too tight, or short,                                                

 that our days would be a succession
            of stepping in and out of pants and skirts,
                        blouses and shirts,                                                

 of turning in the long mirrors,
            wanting beauty,
                        lines that flatter,

 cloth that carries the wearer
            when brains are not enough.
                        Yet wanting more than that.

 Despite the turtlenecks and scarves
            you wear today to hide
                        your wrinkly neck. 

 One day it will all come off. 
            Someone will bathe our bare bodies,
                        maybe efficiently,

 perhaps with revulsion or fear.
            If we’re lucky
                        with tenderness.

 I cannot bear to think of you this way.
            Your lovely, bony body
                         no more. 

 Your dress folded over a chair.

Three

 

Three little brooches, waiting to be pinned.

 

Three little dolls, on their way to afternoon tea.

 

Three little bags, made from wool sweaters.

 

Three little pinkeeps, adorned with lace.

 

PAGE FROM A VINTAGE BOOK FOR CHILDREN

Three little kittens who lost their mittens.

“Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.”
— Buddha

A Tiny Story

 

A TINY BASKET ...

 

WITH A TINY WOODEN EGG ...

 

OPEN THE EGG ...

 

IT SEEMS THERE IS SOMETHING INSIDE THE EGG ...

 

IT'S A TINY WOODEN DOLL.

 

A VERY TINY WOODEN DOLL.