History of Hurricanesby Teresa Cader Because we cannot know— we plant crops, make love in the light of our not-knowing A Minuteman prods cows from the Green with his musket, his waxed paper windows snapping in the wind, stiletto stalks in the herb garden upright—Now blown sideways—Now weighted down in genuflection, not toward, And a frail man holding an Imari teacup paces at daybreak in his courtyard in Kyoto a cherry tree petaling the stones pink and slippery in the weeks he lay feverish waiting for word from the doctor, checking for signs—Now in the season of earthenware sturdiness and dependency it must begin, the season of his recovery No whirling dervish on the radar, no radar, no brackets no voices warning—no Voice—fugue of trees, lightning Because we cannot know, we imagine What will happen to me without you? I know some things I remember— the Delaware River two stories high inside the brick houses cars floating past Trenton like a regiment on display brown water climbing our basement stairs two at a time Like months of remission— the eye shifts the waxed paper windows burst behind the flapping shutters— and how could he save his child after that calm, a man who'd never seen a roof sheared off? Across town the ninth graders in their cutoffs: Science sucks, they grouse. Stupid history of hurricanes. No one can remember one; velocity, storm surge— abstractions the earth churns as Isabel rips through Buzzard's Bay A hurricane, as one meaning has it: a large crowded assembly of fashionable people at a private house The river cannot remember its flooding— I worry you will forget to check the watermarks in time An echo of feet on stone is all the neighbors knew of their neighbor, a lover of cherry trees and of his wife who prayed for him at the shrine, her hair swept up in his favorite onyx comb

Out of Hiding
By Li-Young Lee(1957 - )

Someone said my name in the garden,while I grew smallerin the spreading shadow of the peonies,grew larger by my absence to another,grew older among the ants, ancientunder the opening heads of the flowers,new to myself, and stranger.When I heard my name again, it sounded far,like the name of the child next door,or a favorite cousin visiting for the summer,while the quiet seemed my true name,a near and inaudible singingborn of hidden ground.Quiet to quiet, I called back.And the birds declared my whereabouts all morning.

How to Read a Poem: Beginner's Manualby Pamela Spiro Wagner First, forget everything you have learned, that poetry is difficult, that it cannot be appreciated by the likes of you, with your high school equivalency diploma, your steel-tipped boots, or your white-collar misunderstandings. Do not assume meanings hidden from you: the best poems mean what they say and say it. To read poetry requires only courage enough to leap from the edge and trust. Treat a poem like dirt, humus rich and heavy from the garden. Later it will become the fat tomatoes and golden squash piled high upon your kitchen table. Poetry demands surrender, language saying what is true, doing holy things to the ordinary. Read just one poem a day. Someday a book of poems may open in your hands like a daffodil offering its cup to the sun. When you can name five poets without including Bob Dylan, when you exceed your quota and don't even notice, close this manual.

The Luxury of Hesitation [excerpt from The Proof from Motion]by Keith Waldropthings forgotten I could burn in hell forever set the glass down, our emotion's moment eyes vs sunlight how removed here, from here towards the unfamiliar and frankincense forests against the discerning light everybody sudden frightful indeed, the sound of traffic and no appetite the crowd I would like to be beautiful when written

Children in a Field by Angela Shaw They don't wade in so much as they are taken. Deep in the day, in the deep of the field, every current in the grasses whispers hurry hurry, every yellow spreads its perfume like a rumor, impelling them further on. It is the way of girls. It is the sway of their dresses in the summer trance- light, their bare calves already far-gone in green. What songs will they follow? Whatever the wood warbles, whatever storm or harm the border promises, whatever calm. Let them go. Let them go traceless through the high grass and into the willow- blur, traceless across the lean blue glint of the river, to the long dark bodies of the conifers, and over the welcoming threshold of nightfall.

In Praise of the EarthBy John O'Donohue(1954 - 2008)
Let us blessThe imagination of the Earth,That knew early the patienceTo harness the mind of time,Waited for the seas to warm,Ready to welcome the emergenceOf things dreaming of voyagingAmong the stillness of land.And how light knew to nurseThe growth until the face of the EarthBrightened beneath a vision of color.When the ages of ice cameAnd sealed the Earth insideAn endless coma of cold,The heart of the Earth held hope,Storing fragments of memory,Ready for the return of the sun.Let us thank the EarthThat offers ground for homeAnd hold our feet firmTo walk in space openTo infinite galaxies.Let us salute the silenceAnd certainty of mountains:Their sublime stillness,Their dream-filled hearts.The wonder of a gardenTrusting the first warmth of springUntil its black infinity of cellsBecomes charged with dream;Then the silent, slow nurtureOf the seed's self, coaxing itTo trust the act of death.The humility of the EarthThat transfigures allThat has fallenOf outlived growth.The kindness of the Earth,Opening to receiveOur worn formsInto the final stillness.Let us ask forgiveness of the EarthFor all our sins against her:For our violence and poisoningsOf her beauty.Let us remember within usThe ancient clay,Holding the memory of seasons,The passion of the wind,The fluency of water,The warmth of fire,The quiver-touch of the sunAnd shadowed sureness of the moon.That we may awaken,To live to the fullThe dream of the EarthWho chose us to emergeAnd incarnate its hidden nightIn mind, spirit, and light.

Hunger by Sarah Gambito I had a canoe that took me into the forest I read about. It was fleet and I asked no questions. I saw the careless embroidery of the sky above me. I was small. I was embracing. And I was dear all my life. My instrument is silent. I never learned to play. But it sits poised in my arms like an amber deer that I'll give my life for. What does it sound like? Why haven't I tried?She crept into my arms like a red flower a stranger gives me. She is tame and soft. In a low voice, I tell her stories of when I was a girl. I bring her fruit from the brook of my own glad tidings. I overflow and I almost forget her. My hair is wet and I feel I can be alone. I know other songs. But what about my deer? She's sleeping. I fit an arrow through my bow. I kill so she eats. She says if only I'd been a better mother.

The eating bowl is not one bronze
By Basava(1134 - 1196)
English version by A. K. Ramanujan

The eating bowl is not one bronzeand the looking glass another. Bowl and mirror are one metal Giving back light one becomes a mirror. Aware, one is the Lord's; unaware, a mere human. Worship the lord without forgetting, the lord of the meeting rivers.

Death Barged Inby Kathleen Sheeder Bonanno In his Russian greatcoat slamming open the door with an unpardonable bang, and he has been here ever since. He changes everything, rearranges the furniture, his hand hovers by the phone; he will answer now, he says; he will be the answer. Tonight he sits down to dinner at the head of the table as we eat, mute; later, he climbs into bed between us. Even as I sit here, he stands behind me clamping two colossal hands on my shoulders and bends down and whispers to my neck, From now on, you write about me.

Poetry
By Pablo Neruda
(1904 - 1973)

And it was at that age... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

Long after Hopkinsby Brian Teare Nothing at dusk, lord, but dust and road to keep it. The field kneelsunder white pines, umbra the edge to whom this is addressed :a mind part fern, part birch : two turkeys slowly S-ing their necksthrough inflorescence, arrangement more precise than what light leavesfields : painterly flowers more color than picture, more words for colorthan tint : alizarin or violet, you could write goldenrod, write cornflower,but Queen Anne's lace still hems the low horizon. Faith, what is itabides, what's left of pastoral but unreality. Ask artifice. Ask ornament.Go ahead and ask : what principle animates the natural : owl pink Lady's Slipperorchid white-tailed deer woodchuck : is it only what's visible that's knowable.Twenty dandelions gone to seed; tent worms slung in the articulatedtree; what's tiresome : mind unanswered, writing to supplyscaffolds to hold up scenery, nothing but queries and plywood, stringstrung to a high struck bell auguring : it's too late to see a third turkeyleft headless, wreck of feathers the owl scared, scattered in grass—