Poetry of the Week: Ending 2016 in Fire

Few of us have been fond of 2016. Mentioning the year itself has taken on a cursed quality in the media, in private conversations. Even foes on vehement sides of political divides can share sympathy about the past twelve months.

For myself, it's been a personally difficult year. I've attended two funerals, lost the last of my grandparents, said goodbye to a beloved pet of 14 years, dealt with various more complicated and personal issues, and I'm still not fully equipped to talk about how this last election has shaken me. Suffice to say that I came out under an administration that progressed human rights and made it feel like we were moving forward as a world and a community, and now people I know are getting targeted and harassed, and my existence is once again a matter of debate and public opinion.

But for the lowest of lows, there were also highs. I attended two funerals, but also two weddings. I spent time with friends I haven't seen in years, and strengthened friendships both new and old. There are people who rely on me, and people who will be there to support me when I need it. I don't mean to hide how terrible this year has been overall, but despite all of it, if I look back to December 29th, 2015, I felt lost and alone in ways that I don't any more. The world may not be in a better place now than it was then, but tired and bruised though I am, I'm better off.

So I'll accept the pains and trials and lessons of this year, and consign the rest to the fire. Fires of cleansing, of anger, of passion. Fires of trial. Fires of death and rebirth. Maybe 2017 won't be any better than 2016, but life and growth continue regardless, sometimes the stronger for having survived.


Fire and Ice - Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire, 
Some say in ice. 
From what I’ve tasted of desire 
I hold with those who favor fire. 
But if it had to perish twice, 
I think I know enough of hate 
To say that for destruction ice 
Is also great 
And would suffice.


Fire - Dorothea Mackellar
This life that we call our own
Is neither strong nor free;
A flame in the wind of death,
It trembles ceaselessly.

And this all we can do
To use our little light
Before, in the piercing wind,
It flickers into night:

To yield the heat of the flame,
To grudge not, but to give
Whatever we have of strength,
That one more flame may live.


You cannot put a fire out - Emily Dickinson
You cannot put a fire out;
  A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
  Upon the slowest night.

You cannot fold a flood       
  And put it in a drawer,—
Because the winds would find it out,
  And tell your cedar floor.


To Some I Have Talked With By The Fire - William Butler Yeats
While I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes,
My heart would brim with dreams about the times
When we bent down above the fading coals
And talked of the dark folk who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword-blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break
And the white hush end all but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.


Keep your lanterns burning and your hearths warm. I hope your winter is filled with folks who love you, and that you have a happy new year.

Poetry of the Week: Alone

As is becoming usual, this week's poem is not what I was looking for, but still feels sufficiently relevant to share.


Alone - Maya Angelou
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Poetry of the Week: A Curse For A Nation

I'm pinning this poem here to remind me of its existence, and in the hope that it reminds me of goals I've had in the past and ways I'd like to help in the future.

Slightly unrelated, looking up poetry from and about early America has been fascinating. Much of the poetry I know and find is what was lauded and now survives. At some point next year I'll make a concerted effort to gather modern poetry.

A Curse For A Nation - Elizabeth Browning

I heard an angel speak last night,

And he said 'Write!

Write a Nation's curse for me,

And send it over the Western Sea.'

I faltered, taking up the word:

'Not so, my lord!

If curses must be, choose another

To send thy curse against my brother.

'For I am bound by gratitude,

By love and blood,

To brothers of mine across the sea,

Who stretch out kindly hands to me.'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

From the summits of love a curse is driven,

As lightning is from the tops of heaven.'

'Not so,' I answered. 'Evermore

My heart is sore

For my own land's sins: for little feet

Of children bleeding along the street:

'For parked-up honors that gainsay

The right of way:

For almsgiving through a door that is

Not open enough for two friends to kiss:

'For love of freedom which abates

Beyond the Straits:

For patriot virtue starved to vice on

Self-praise, self-interest, and suspicion:

'For an oligarchic parliament,

And bribes well-meant.

What curse to another land assign,

When heavy-souled for the sins of mine?'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

Because thou hast strength to see and hate

A foul thing done within thy gate.'

'Not so,' I answered once again.

'To curse, choose men.

For I, a woman, have only known

How the heart melts and the tears run down.'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

Some women weep and curse, I say

(And no one marvels), night and day.

'And thou shalt take their part to-night,

Weep and write.

A curse from the depths of womanhood

Is very salt, and bitter, and good.'

So thus I wrote, and mourned indeed,

What all may read.

And thus, as was enjoined on me,

I send it over the Western Sea.

The Curse

Because ye have broken your own chain

With the strain

Of brave men climbing a Nation's height,

Yet thence bear down with brand and thong

On souls of others, -- for this wrong

This is the curse. Write.

Because yourselves are standing straight

In the state

Of Freedom's foremost acolyte,

Yet keep calm footing all the time

On writhing bond-slaves, -- for this crime

This is the curse. Write.

Because ye prosper in God's name,

With a claim

To honor in the old world's sight,

Yet do the fiend's work perfectly

In strangling martyrs, -- for this lie

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while kings conspire

Round the people's smouldering fire,

And, warm for your part,

Shall never dare -- O shame!

To utter the thought into flame

Which burns at your heart.

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while nations strive

With the bloodhounds, die or survive,

Drop faint from their jaws,

Or throttle them backward to death;

And only under your breath

Shall favor the cause.

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while strong men draw

The nets of feudal law

To strangle the weak;

And, counting the sin for a sin,

Your soul shall be sadder within

Than the word ye shall speak.

This is the curse. Write.

When good men are praying erect

That Christ may avenge His elect

And deliver the earth,

The prayer in your ears, said low,

Shall sound like the tramp of a foe

That's driving you forth.

This is the curse. Write.

When wise men give you their praise,

They shall praise in the heat of the phrase,

As if carried too far.

When ye boast your own charters kept true,

Ye shall blush; for the thing which ye do

Derides what ye are.

This is the curse. Write.

When fools cast taunts at your gate,

Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate

As ye look o'er the wall;

For your conscience, tradition, and name

Explode with a deadlier blame

Than the worst of them all.

This is the curse. Write.

Go, wherever ill deeds shall be done,

Go, plant your flag in the sun

Beside the ill-doers!

And recoil from clenching the curse

Of God's witnessing Universe

With a curse of yours.

This is the curse. Write.