Evening Poetry, April 8

From The Essential Rumi

by Rumi

Some nights stay up till dawn,

as the moon sometimes does for the sun.

Be a full bucket pulled up the dark way

of a well, then lifted out into light.

You can find this poem in The Essential Rumi.

Evening Poetry, April 7

Dancing in Mexico

by Mary Oliver

Not myself,

but Maria,

who, when her work is done,

tunes in the radio,

goes out into the garden,

picks up the front feet of the little dog Ricky,

and dances. She dances.

You can find this poem in Swan: Poems and Prose Poems.

Evening Poetry, April 5

There Will Come Soft Rains (War Time)

by Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree

If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,

Would scarcely know that we were gone.

You can find this poem in The Four Seasons: Poems.

Evening Poetry, April 4

For Belonging

by John O’ Donohue

May you listen to your longing to be free.

May the frames of your belonging be generous

enough for your dreams.

May you arise each day with a voice of blessing

whispering in your heart.

May you find a harmony between your soul and

your life.

May the sanctuary of your soul never become


May you know the eternal longing that lives at the

heart of time.

May there be kindness in your gaze when you look


May you never place walls between the light and


May you allow the wild beauty of the invisible world

to gather you, mind you, and embrace you in


You can find this poem in To Bless the Space Between Us.

Evening Poetry, April 3

Spring Song II

by Jean Garrigue

And now my spring beauties,

Things of the earth,

Beetles, shards and wings of moth

And snail houses left

From last summer’s wreck,

Now spring smoke

Of the burned dead leaves

And veils of scent

Of some secret plant,

Come, my beauties, teach me,

Let me have your wild surprise,

Yes, and tell me on my knees

Of your new life.

You can find this poem in The Four Seasons: Poems.

Evening Poetry, April 2



by Emily Dickinson

An altered look about the hills;

A Tyrian light the village fills;

A wider sunrise in the dawn;

A deeper twilight on the lawn;

A print of a vermilion foot;

A purple finger on the slope;

A flippant fly upon the pane;

A spider at his trade again;

An added strut in chanticleer;

A flower expected everywhere;

An axe shrill singing in the woods;

Fern-odors on untravelled roads,–

All this, and more I cannot tell,

A furtive look you know as well,

And Nicodemus’ mystery

Receives its annual reply.

You can find this poem in Hope is the Thing With Feathers.

Evening Poetry, April 1

I Want to Write Something So Simply

by Mary Oliver

I want to write something

so simply

about love

or about pain

that even

as you are reading

you feel it

and as you read

you keep feeling it

and though it be my story

it will be common,

though it be singular

it will be known to you

so that by the end

you will think–

no, you will realize–

that it was all the while

yourself arranging the words,

that it was all the time

words that you yourself,

out of your own heart

had been saying.

You can find this poem in Evidence.

Evening Poetry, March 31


by Mary Oliver

There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled,

Like, telling someone you love them.

Or giving your money away, all of it.

Your heart is beating, isn’t it?

You’re not in chains, are you?

There is nothing more pathetic than caution

when headlong might save a life,

even, possibly, your own.

You can find this poem in Felicity.

Evening Poetry, March 29

Old Friends

by Freya Manfred

Old friends are a steady spring rain,

or late summer sunshine edging into fall,

or frosted leaves along a snowy path–

a voice for all seasons saying, I know you.

The older I grow, the more I fear I’ll lose my old friends,

as if too many years have scrolled by

since the day we sprang forth, seeking each other.

Old friend, I knew you before we met.

I saw you at the window of my soul–

I heard you in the steady millstone of my heart

grinding grain for our daily bread.

You are sedimentary, rock-solid cousin earth,

where I stand firmly, astonished by your grace and truth.

And gratitude comes to me and says:

“Tell me anything, and I will listen.

Ask me anything, and I will answer you.”

You can find this in ""“>Loon in Late November Water.

Evening Poetry, March 28

Quartz Clock

by Jane Hirshfield

The ideas of a physicist

can be turned into useful objects:

a rocket, a quartz clock,

a microwave oven for cooking.

the ideas of poets turn into only themselves,

as the hands of a clock do,

or the face of a person.

It changes, but only more into the person.

You can find this poem in The Beauty: Poems.