So much of what delights and troubles you Happens on a surface You take for ground. Your mind thinks your life alone, Your eyes consider air your nearest neighbor, Yet it seems that a little below your heart There houses in you an unknown self Who prefers the patterns of the dark And is not persuaded by the eye’s affection Or caught by the flash of thought.
It is a self that enjoys contemplative patience With all your unfolding expression, Is never drawn to break into light Though you entangle yourself in unworthiness And misjudge what you do and who you are.
It presides within like an evening freedom That will often see you enchanted by twilight Without ever recognizing the falling night, It resembles the under-earth of your visible life: All you do and say and think is fostered Deep in its opaque and prevenient clay.
It dwells in a strange, yet rhythmic ease That is not ruffled by disappointment; It presides in a deeper current of time Free from the force of cause and sequence That otherwise shapes your life.
Were it to break forth into day, Its dark light might quench your mind, For it knows how your primeval heart Sisters every cell of your life To all your known mind would avoid,
Thus it knows to dwell in you gently, Offering you only discrete glimpses Of how you construct your life.
At times, it will lead you strangely, Magnetized by some resonance That ambushes your vigilance.
It works most resolutely at night As the poet who draws your dreams, Creating for you many secret doors, Decorated with pictures of your hunger;
It has the dignity of the angelic That knows you to your roots, Always awaiting your deeper befriending To take you beyond the threshold of want, Where all your diverse strainings Can come to wholesome ease.
Hi, dear blog friends! I’m so sorry I’ve missed getting poetry out to you the past few evenings. Between holiday sip & shop events with my natural bodycare and aromatherapy business, and a music gig for our acoustic duo, life’s been busy. In the back of my mind, though, I’ve been thinking about poetry and the blog and how much I missed this.
The Darkling Thrush
By Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires.
The land’s sharp features seemed to be The Century’s corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.