Alexandersmap

    Category: Poetry

    • Transformation

      Don’t just learn, experience.
      Don’t just read, absorb.
      Don’t just change, transform.
      Don’t just relate, advocate.
      Don’t just promise, prove.
      Don’t just criticize, encourage.
      Don’t just think, ponder.
      Don’t just take, give.
      Don’t just see, feel.
      Don’t just dream, do.
      Don’t just hear, listen.
      Don’t just talk, act.
      Don’t just tell, show.
      Don’t just exist, live.
      — Roy T. Bennett, Don’t Just

      Spring is the season of transformation, and it has surely been on my mind. Go to places like Disney World or Las Vegas or anywhere where people don’t know your name and you’ll witness people being transformed into someone else. Look in a mirror or inward and you might just see it in yourself.

      We all want to be some better version of ourselves in some way or another. Transformation is our ticket to making our vision a reality. It doesn’t have to be limited to some Jedi character we turn into with a plastic lightsaber and a cape. It can be a compass heading we steer our lives towards. Decide what to be and go be it.

      To be transformed is simply to shift our belief in what is and what will be into something entirely different. We owe it to ourselves to make that shift more inspiring, and dare we believe, more thrilling. To spring forward towards some exciting new idea of what’s possible. Can you see it? What are we waiting for?

    • Still in the Game

      Isn’t it strange
      That princes and kings,
      And clowns that caper
      In sawdust rings,
      And common people
      Like you and me
      Are builders for eternity?

      Each is given a bag of tools,
      A shapeless mass,
      A book of rules;
      And each must make—
      Ere life is flown—
      A stumbling block
      Or a stepping stone.
      — R.L. Sharpe, A Bag of Tools

      This poem has been lingering in my life for decades. I don’t know when, really, for it sat quietly on the page of a book, corner folded over and book cover flap also marking the page, awaiting its time to be rediscovered. Welcome back.

      Life surely has flown. In fact it’s actively flying quite rapidly. And we are still in the game. We, with our bags of tools and our grand ideas taking shape, following the rules or breaking them. What matters in the end is how we use the time. Ben Franklin reminded us not to squander it, for it is the stuff of life. Has life been fully stuffed or are we feeling a little unfulfilled? What’s done is done, and what will be will be. Do something with what all that’s left.

      There are so many ways to stumble or to squander. Ah, but there remains so many ways to climb ahead to something greater for ourselves. We ought to rise to meet the moment, don’t you think? Surely, this time capsule of a poem, this gift from a forgotten day brought to the present and now shared with you, dear reader, offers some clue for what to do now. This is no time to clown around.

    • Flowing Towards the Next

      I would love to live
      like a river flows,
      carried by the surprise
      of its own unfolding.
      — John O’Donohue, Fluent

      This river is unfolding rapidly lately. We think of rivers as quietly predictable. We forget about the rapids and the plunges off of cliffs. Waterfalls are simply rivers with an abrupt change of state. And so it is that life can be exhilarating some days, and utterly exhausting other days. That’s life though, isn’t it? It will level out again one day. We learn to take it as it comes.

      To paraphrase my favorite Navy pilot, I have seen the future, and I don’t have to like it. But we can work to influence that which we can control. It’s our life, such that it is, and we are the only ones who will ever have the front row seat on this journey.

      A confession: I’ve quoted O’Donohue’s poem incorrectly. The original had capitalized the first letter of each line. My inclination to correct that is a weakness in my own way of thinking. He wrote what he wrote, and I ought to leave it well enough alone. So here you go:

      I would love to live
      Like a river flows,
      Carried by the surprise
      Of its own unfolding.

      It doesn’t matter how the poem was written. What mattered was the wisdom captured in a few words placed just so. We get so caught up in the trivial details that we drown ourselves instead of accepting everything as our unique, enthralling story. Here we are, moving through time from here to somewhere. We ought to look around and acknowledge what is.

      Still, those waterfalls. It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the landing. We want to make a splash in our brief time before infinity, but it isn’t always what we expected it to be. It helps in such moments to remember the Serenity Prayer:

      God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

      We learn that wisdom is only useful when it is acquired. We go through life stumbling across bits of wisdom along the way. It’s up to us whether we pick it up or leave it forgotten on the banks of missed opportunity. We are the sum of our parts, and in the end everything we accumulate will carry us somewhere, soon enough.

      Here’s the thing about that poem we might have missed as we (I) focused on the way it was written: O’Donohue wasn’t telling us to live as he lives, he was telling us he’d love to live thusly. We are all figuring it out, forever surprised by life in all its stillness and turbulent moments. Be here, now. That is flow, and it will carry us from this moment onwards towards the next.

    • To Do at Last

      I bless the night that nourished my heart
      To set the ghosts of longing free
      Into the flow and figure of dream
      That went to harvest from the dark
      Bread for the hunger no one sees.

      All that is eternal in me
      Welcome the wonder of this day,
      The field of brightness it creates
      Offering time for each thing
      To arise and illuminate.

      I place on the altar of dawn:
      The quiet loyalty of breath,
      The tent of thought where I shelter,
      Wave of desire I am shore to
      And all beauty drawn to the eye.

      May my mind come alive today
      To the invisible geography
      That invites me to new frontiers,
      To break the dead shell of yesterdays,
      To risk being disturbed and changed.

      May I have the courage today
      To live the life that I would love,
      To postpone my dream no longer
      But do at last what I came here for
      And waste my heart on fear no more.
      — John O’Donohue, A Morning Offering

      For Saint Patrick’s Day, a morning offering from a revered Irish writer. And what a poem it is! Go on and read it once again, I don’t mind at all. I’ve read it a few times more myself, considered what to go with and in the end quoted the poem in its entirety.

      Patrick chased the snakes out of Ireland. George Washington and Henry Knox chased the British out of Boston Harbor. We note the history of this day but ought to remember to make a little history ourselves. Forget drowning in pint or dram—find your stride today instead. A wee bit of poetry, a soundtrack of favorite Irish music, a brisk walk, and some writing of our own. Perhaps a splash of green to mark the occasion. The 17th of March is a day for action, not simply commemoration.

      The truth is, we get worn down by life and need to be provoked back on track. To break the dead shell of yesterdays and regain that courage to do at last what we came here for. There’s nothing to be done about all that’s happened before today, save to learn from it. Use this time to chase away our own snakes and move onward towards a brighter future. To welcome the wonder of this day by doing it justice.

    • What Will That Be?

      “I write to find out what I didn’t know I knew.”— Robert Frost

      Lately I’ve been playing with writing style just to see where it takes me. I’m not sure I want to dive too deeply into writing poetry, but I aspire to write as elegantly concise as a great poet does. As you can see from my first two sentences compared to the quote from Robert Frost, I still have work to do. And perhaps that should be the blog post today: Aspires for great, sentenced to better. No?

      Then again, this isn’t meant to be a diary or journal. It’s a ship’s log without the ship. Here is where the journey has taken me. Have a look around and note the state of things. What one line will mark this day uniquely on this passage? How does the first day of a new month feel compared to the last day of last month? Are we one day closer to knowing? Knowing what? Every day is learning and discovery and marking the changes.

      I stray onto social media less frequently now. We all feel it’s changed. We were collectively violated by bots and billionaires enough to be deeply suspicious of each platform. These blog posts are shared on three platforms that felt less icky when I linked to them. Is less icky enough of a reason to share content with people I don’t know? Is it all AI scanning now? I don’t do the like-for-a-like thing very well at all (sorry). Does that make me anti-social or simply selective with my precious time? Are we slowly shrinking from open to closed while we debate such things?

      We’re on the road to find out. My road happens to involve an hour or sometimes two of quiet contemplation and moving words around to make things flow better. I’m under no illusions that this blog will change the world—only its writer’s world. For that hour or two compounded over thousands of days adds up to something better than we started with. The world may be more icky, more divided, more collectively stupid than it could have been with better choices, but all we control is what we contribute to the conversation. And just what will that be?

    • Something

      “I have finally concluded, maybe that’s what life is about: there’s a lot of despair, but also the odd moment of beauty, where time is no longer the same. It’s as if those strains of music created a sort of interlude in time, something suspended, an elsewhere that had come to us, an always within never. Yes, that’s it, an always within never.” ― Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog

      How so we seize what flees?
      Beyond an awareness
      of time passing by
      ritual captures
      something
      of each day.

      To do the same few things
      offers an impression
      on our dizzying days.
      To manage
      something,
      as each flies.

      No, these days are not ours,
      only each ritual—
      odd moments of beauty.
      We seize
      something,
      always within never.

    • Opened at Last

      That day I saw beneath dark clouds
      the passing light over the water
      and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
      I knew then, as I had before
      life is no passing memory of what has been
      nor the remaining pages in a great book
      waiting to be read.

      It is the opening of eyes long closed.
      It is the vision of far off things
      seen for the silence they hold.
      It is the heart after years
      of secret conversing
      speaking out loud in the clear air.

      It is Moses in the desert
      fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
      It is the man throwing away his shoes
      as if to enter heaven
      and finding himself astonished,
      opened at last,
      fallen in love with solid ground.
      — David Whyte, The Opening of Eyes

      Lately I’ve been missing the owls. I walk at night with the dog, assessing the latest accumulation of snow and ice, and I wonder where the owls have gone. They haven’t gone anywhere, I know, for they’re non-migratory. And yet I don’t see them. I don’t hear them. They’re here, but invisible. A whisper in the dark, like so many hopes and dreams. No doubt they’re watching the pup and me, quietly assessing the seekers. We aren’t food or an existential threat, so why bother with us? The fascination is entirely one-sided. The thing is, one doesn’t walk around the neighborhood with a pair of binoculars and remain on good terms with the neighbors. They already think me a curiosity for all the walking the pup and I do. And so it goes that the owls remain hidden in plain sight.

      We move through life meaning well, but easily distracted by the immediate concerns of the day. We all have our owls that whisper to us, waiting to be found. But how hard are we really looking for them? What seismic shift needs to happen? What triggers action towards our grandest plans? After years of conversing, when do we finally hear those whispers loud and clear?

      The answer is sometimes a jolt to the routine. Glancing up at just the right place to catch an owl staring back at us, or stumbling into the right job. But usually it’s being present with the blank page writing, deleting and writing again until just the right words come to us. Whatever that version of writing is to each of us, the ritual of staying with it until we find it is the same. Serendipity aside, we don’t find what we’re looking for if we aren’t out in the proverbial woods with our nose up and our eyes open. Discovery is nothing but being out there in it, today and every day, aware that we may just find possibility yet.

    • Fortune Favors

      “Contemplation often makes life miserable. We should act more, think less, and stop watching ourselves live.” — Nicolas de Chamfort

      There may be time
      for contemplation
      one day soon
      enough.

      Stop thinking so much
      and go
      live your life,
      cajoled.

      This day is for doing,
      as fortune
      favors, they say.
      Boldly.

    • Into the Morning

      I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
      flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
      as it was taught, and if not how shall
      I correct it?
      Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
      can I do better?
      Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
      can do it and I am, well,
      hopeless.
      Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
      am I going to get rheumatism,
      lockjaw, dementia?
      Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
      And gave it up. And took my old body
      and went out into the morning,
      and sang.
      — Mary Oliver, I Worried

      I let the pup out this morning as I do every morning. She was inclined to stay out longer, and longer still. I glanced out the window and saw she was prancing in the deep snow. There were no rabbits or mice or moles scurrying away from her, just a dog doing her dance with life. And I wondered at my choosing productivity instead.

      The world will go on. We learn this in time. And we learn to focus on getting things done. Our particular things. Productivity and efficiency become tools of our trade. We trust in our routines, rely on our habits. Growth becomes incremental. Sometimes surprisingly exponential.

      When we are focused and engaged in a life we love, we forget to worry so much. Worry is for the less busy. It’s a sign that we aren’t using our time in the way that we’d like to. We think too much instead. Do something with the time and the worry recedes. Worry tomorrow, for we have things to we’d like to do today.

      And so I’ll publish this blog. I’ll roll into my routine of being all that I can be. After all, the world is expecting me to be me today. But that dance in the snow sure looks fun. Far more fun than worrying or resolutely getting things done.

    • The Call to Experience

      I am a part of all that I have met;
      Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
      Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
      — Alfred Tennyson, Ulysses

      There is a call to experience that draws us out into the world. Each experience in turn informs—there is still more awaiting us. The proper answer to the call is to keep going, to keep doing interesting things that expand our horizon. This is the life of discovery and wonder. It is ours for simply taking the bold next step into the unknown. We are a part of all that we have met, yet all that remains extends far beyond our capacity to reach it.

      There is a price for all things. To explore the untraveled world means less time in the garden, less time being present in the lives of our close circle, less time in our familiar routine. But less time is the curse of all humans. Every day we wake to a new day we have less time. When we come to accept this we learn to focus on making the most of the shrinking time we have.

      Is the siren the call to experience or the call to home? Does it prompt us or haunt us? Are we to be dashed on the rocks chasing the wrong passion, or doomed to wander forever, never reaching home? We cannot live in fear of possibilities, but simply strive to close the gap between where we are and what we dream to do and be and see in the time we have left.