Viral Dailies, Day 4

Few poets have the ability to paint such big pictures economically and simply as does Pablo Neruda. My friend Nancy Kelly recently posted this to my Facebook wall and it was a reminder of the impact of well-conceived, well-sung verse to lift and illuminate and proclaim.

For today’s Viral Dailies in celebration of National Poetry Month in isolation, let’s read this together, and just…breathe.

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Poetry

And it was at that age . . . poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, not silence,
but from a street it called me,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among raging fires
or returning alone,
there it was, without a face,
and it touched me.

I didn’t know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind.
Something knocked in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first, faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing;
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
the darkness perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire, and flowers,
the overpowering night, the universe.

And I, tiny being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss.
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose with the wind.

Pablo Neruda
(1904—1973)

And, in conclusion

Dear friends, I thank you and your engagement with me on this National Poetry Month endeavour. It’s been a fun way to keep me writing and to enter just a little more deeply into poetry, specifically Haiku.

Let’s have some fun with our final installment for National Poetry Month, shall we?

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After the tomb

National Poetry Month is almost over! Today, I leave aside my daily Haiku to offer this one. A meditation of post-resurrection curiosity.

After the tomb

When blood, still damp, soaked through

the sleeves of shrug-shoulder’d men,

did you cry for their laughter?

 

Were your accusers held in sleep

when Mary’s shaking hands

held fast your plundered feet?

 

How long before bewildered men

and doting women find again

their reasons for remonstrance?

 

Will a miracle suffice

to fill the gaps in minds too young

not to lust for proof?

 

Were the angels surprised

to find their silenced songs

reignited for their fittest subject?

 

Did you know these walls would

only remind you of this one, unending breath?

This one effortless act for one so bored of death?

Some nights I find you

My daily offering for National Poetry Month is from a young colleague of mine, Anneliese Myers. She is a talented, up and coming poet and writer.

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Anneliese Myers

Read. Read again. Like, share, the works!

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Some nights I find you

 

Some nights I find you

tucked into the corner

of a dream,

like you were something

so dear, that I put you

some safe place

where I might chance

upon you every so often

to love you and

to smile at you again.

Like the photograph

in my silver locket,

like the dog-eared page

in my favorite book.

Like that.