As part of National Poetry Month, the wonderfully creative poets and poetry lovers at the Academy of American Poets at poets.org annually hold a day called Poem in Your Pocket Day.
On this day, we are to slip a copy of a favorite poem into our pockets, pulling it out to share with friends, co-workers, etc. And while I do have a poem printed up to share with my Expository Essay class at today's ECII Class Day co-op meeting, I also want to pull this poem from my virtual pocket to share it with you all.
This poem was shared with me just yesterday--and wasn't at all the poem I had planned to share (I was leaning toward another offering by my favorite poet, e.e. cummings). A friend of mine who isn't the first person of whom I think when the term "poetry" comes to mind, heard this poem on NPR this week, found a copy, and e-mailed it to me. She's a gifted gardener, so I can see why this poem in particular would appeal to her; it is truly lovely...and thought-provoking as well, as all truly great poems are.
So here's the poem I will have in my pocket (or at least in my briefcase since my skirt has no pockets) throughout the day today:
Poem in Your Pocket
Day 2014
I HAPPENED TO BE STANDING
~ Mary Oliver
I don’t know where prayers go,
or what they do.
Do cats pray, while they sleep
half-asleep in the sun?
Does the opossum pray as it
crosses the street?
The sunflowers? The old black oak
growing older every year?
I know I can walk through the world,
along the shore or under the trees,
with my mind filled with things
of little importance, in full
self-attendance. A condition I can’t really
call being alive.
Is a prayer a gift, or a petition,
or does it matter?
The sunflowers blaze, maybe that’s their way.
Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.
or what they do.
Do cats pray, while they sleep
half-asleep in the sun?
Does the opossum pray as it
crosses the street?
The sunflowers? The old black oak
growing older every year?
I know I can walk through the world,
along the shore or under the trees,
with my mind filled with things
of little importance, in full
self-attendance. A condition I can’t really
call being alive.
Is a prayer a gift, or a petition,
or does it matter?
The sunflowers blaze, maybe that’s their way.
Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.
While I was thinking this I happened to be standing
just outside my door, with my notebook open,
which is the way I begin every morning.
Then a wren in the privet began to sing.
He was positively drenched in enthusiasm,
I don’t know why. And yet, why not.
I wouldn’t persuade you from whatever you believe
or whatever you don’t. That’s your business.
But I thought, of the wren’s singing, what could this be
if it isn’t a prayer?
So I just listened, my pen in the air.
just outside my door, with my notebook open,
which is the way I begin every morning.
Then a wren in the privet began to sing.
He was positively drenched in enthusiasm,
I don’t know why. And yet, why not.
I wouldn’t persuade you from whatever you believe
or whatever you don’t. That’s your business.
But I thought, of the wren’s singing, what could this be
if it isn’t a prayer?
So I just listened, my pen in the air.
2 comments:
That is a very nice poem. Thank you for posting it.
Thank you!!! :)
Post a Comment