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 

 

The Emerald Mosque on the Hill (Monday Poem)

 

By Raza Ali Hasan

 

In the lull, the afternoon sun warms
the linseed field. The flowers are quiet,

their bright subdued in the green
while the mind wanders

to the emerald mosque upon the hill,
built around a flowing spring,

the easy absolutions and ablutions
in that mosque where the spring water

has been let loose to meander
over marble courtyards and inner chambers,

across the geometric, green-tiled floor that
cools the heels of the faithful.

 

from Grieving Shias, by Raza Ali Hasan

The Sheep Meadow Press, 2006

Dust (Monday Poem)

 

By Dorianne Laux

 

Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor —
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn’t elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That’s how it is sometimes —
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you’re just too tired to open it.

from What We Carry, by Dorianne Laux

BOA Editions, Ltd., 1994

At Blackwater Pond (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled

after a night of rain.

I dip my cupped hands. I drink

a long time. It tastes

like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold

into my body, waking the bones. I hear them

deep inside me, whispering

oh what is that beautiful thing

that just happened?

 

 

from Devotions by Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2020

V Sabbath 1991 (Monday Poem)

 by Wendell Berry

The seed is in the ground.

Now may we rest in hope

While darkness does its work.

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

Counterpoint Press, 2013