
… ran through a secret list of everything that was good. (Emily St. John Mandel)

How to Be a Poet
By Wendell Berry
(to remind myself)
i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

To shelter at noon, pallid and rapt,
back against a scalding orchard wall;
to hear from in the thick of briars
blackbirds’ blatter, the slither of adders.
To spy how over the tares’ stalks, along cracks
in the earth, lines of red ants break
and close ranks, intertwine
atop miniature haystacks.
To observe through boughs the sea’s
distant shimmering of scales
while from bald heights the cicadas
unleash their tremulous calls.
Then emerging into the dazzling sun,
to feel, grimly amazed, how all
of life, its drudgery, is in
this slow trek hard by a wall
whose top is harled with jagged shards.
Noon, Eugenio Montale, translated from the Italian by Jamie McKendrick

… Just so you know there’s no one
for whom all is well. ?Just so you know
the lotus is married to the mud. ?Just so
you know to listen deeply is to love.
Just so you know, everything is an inside job.
What the River Said, Wendy Videlock

“… let us dream towards
what we want
beyond survival
Amir Rabiyah, Our Dangerous Sweetness


If you find yourself half naked
and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing,
again, the earth’s great, sonorous moan that says
you are the air of the now and gone, that says
all you love will turn to dust,
and will meet you there, do not
raise your fist. Do not raise
your small voice against it. And do not
take cover. Instead, curl your toes
into the grass, watch the cloud
ascending from your lips. Walk
through the garden’s dormant splendor.
Say only, thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you, Ross Gay

Attend to these found and delicate marks; distinct sentiments may arise; small oscillations
remains all supple hands and gesture
skin of language
fusing its finest seam
in fluent light
with a raised finger
dance of lips
each sentence complete
he speaks to the shadow
of leaves
strung tissue paper
snipped into delicate flags
on which side of the conversation
did anyone begin?
wearing two skins
the brilliant question mark of Mexico
stands on its head
like an answer
The Man Whose Voice Has Been Taken From His Throat, Naomi Shihab Nye