A Wing and a Prayer (Monday Poem)

 

By Beth Ann Fennelly

 

We thought the birds were singing louder. We were almost certain they
were. We spoke of this, when we spoke, if we spoke, on our zoom screens
or in the backyard with our podfolk. Dang, you hear those birds? Don’t
they sound loud? We shouted to the neighbor, and from behind her mask
she agreed. The birds are louder this spring. This summer. I’ve never
heard such loud birds. Listen to ’em sing. But the birds aren’t singing
louder. In fact, the opposite. Ornithologists have recorded lowered
decibel levels of bird song. In the absence of noise pollution—our planes
overhead, our cars rushing past with their motors and horns, our bars
leaking music onto the street corners—the birds don’t need to shout.
So why are we hearing birdsong now, when it is quieter? Because we
need it more. Poetry in the pandemic: birdsong that was there all along.

From Poetry (July 2021)

A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky (Monday Poem)

 

By Lewis Carroll

 

A boat beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July —

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear —

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream —
Lingering in the golden gleam —
Life, what is it but a dream?

 

from poetryoutloud.org

The End of the World (Monday Poem)

 

By Dana Gioia

“We're going,” they said, “to the end of the world.”   
So they stopped the car where the river curled,   
And we scrambled down beneath the bridge   
On the gravel track of a narrow ridge.

We tramped for miles on a wooded walk
Where dog-hobble grew on its twisted stalk.
Then we stopped to rest on the pine-needle floor   
While two ospreys watched from an oak by the shore.

We came to a bend, where the river grew wide   
And green mountains rose on the opposite side.   
My guides moved back. I stood alone,
As the current streaked over smooth flat stone.

Shelf by stone shelf the river fell.
The white water goosetailed with eddying swell.   
Faster and louder the current dropped
Till it reached a cliff, and the trail stopped.

I stood at the edge where the mist ascended,   
My journey done where the world ended.
I looked downstream. There was nothing but sky,   
The sound of the water, and the water’s reply.

from Interrogations at Noon, by Dana Gioia. 

Graywolf Press, 2001

Eagle Poem (Monday Poem)

 

By Joy Harjo

 

To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear;
Can’t know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren’t always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.

from In Mad Love and War, by Joy Harjo. 

Wesleyan University Press, 1990

V Sabbaths 2002 (Monday Poem)

by Wendell Berry

 

 

The cherries turn ripe, ripe,

and the birds come: red-headed

and red-bellied woodpeckers,

blue jays, cedar waxwings,

robins -- beautiful, hungry, wild

in our domestic tree. I pick

with the birds, gathering the red

cherries alight among the dark

leaves, my hands so sticky

with juice the fruit will hardly

drop from them into the pail.

The birds pick as I pick, all

of us delighted in the weighty heights

--- the fruit red ripe, the green leaves,

the blue sky and white clouds,

all tending to flight -- making

the most of this sweetness against

the time when there will be none.

And you are to me, my love,

as a tree of ripe cherries,

and I am a wild bird high

in your branches, hungry, ready to fly!

 

 

from This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems by Wendell Berry

Counterpoint Press, 2013