16 Gratitude poems

After the Yoruba Though the amaryllis sags and spills so do those my wishes serve, all along the town. And yes, the new moon, kinked there in night's patch, tugs me so—but I can't reach to right the slant. And though our cat pads past without a tail, some with slinking tails peer one-eyed at the dawn, some with eyes are clawless, some with sparking claws contain no voice with which to sing of foxes gassing in the lane. Round-shouldered pals parade smart shirts, while my broad back supports a scrubby jumper, fawn or taupe. The balding English air their stubble while some headless hero sports a feathered hat. I know a man whose thoroughbred grazes in his porch for want of livery. There are scholars of Kant who can't find Kent on the map, and men of Kent who cannot fathom Kant. We who would polish off a feast have lain late in our beds, our bellies groaning, throats on fire. We who'd drain a vat of wine have drunk our own blood for its sting. Each of us in tatters flaunts one treasured garment flapping in the wind.

The best gift is the same every year everyone around the table nobody missing this time i ask for this every year some years i get it

Lord sho been good to me My loved hoe handle, and my sweat, heart pounding and the towhee singing. Jill, jerking the hospital sheets, “Damn careless nurses    ... “But golly    ...    a good life. “That student who kept writing me. “That rainy picnic by a road in Burgundy. “Heart thumping, thumping on    ...    more, more....” A squirrel on a post. The nutgrooved skull drops; he claws the dirt. Next winter! Frost thrown down, a stiffened morning, a harsh corrective herb to gnaw, take in. Sho been, Lord, Sho been Whether born of  kiss sublime, victim’s terror, rapist crime, and however ending, nut-gnawers nulled inscrutably, or Caesars, soldiers, friends lammed open-eyed — Lord, good...sho been

If you find yourself half naked and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing, again, the earth's great, sonorous moan that says you are the air of the now and gone, that says all you love will turn to dust, and will meet you there, do not raise your fist. Do not raise your small voice against it. And do not take cover. Instead, curl your toes into the grass, watch the cloud ascending from your lips. Walk through the garden's dormant splendor. Say only, thank you. Thank you.

Listen with the night falling we are saying thank you we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings we are running out of the glass rooms with our mouths full of food to look at the sky and say thank you we are standing by the water thanking it standing by the windows looking out in our directions back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging after funerals we are saying thank you after the news of the dead whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you over telephones we are saying thank you in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators remembering wars and the police at the door and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you in the banks we are saying thank you in the faces of the officials and the rich and of all who will never change we go on saying thank you thank you with the animals dying around us taking our feelings we are saying thank you with the forests falling faster than the minutes of our lives we are saying thank you with the words going out like cells of a brain with the cities growing over us we are saying thank you faster and faster with nobody listening we are saying thank you thank you we are saying and waving dark though it is

Eugen Boissevain died in the autumn of 1949. I had wondered already, at the time of our visit, what would happen to Edna [Millay] if he should die first. —Edmund Wilson 1 She cleaned house, and then lay down long On the long stair. On one of those cold white wings That the strange fowl provide for us like one hillside of the sea, That cautery of snow that blinds us, Pitiless light, One winter afternoon Fair near the place where she sank down with one wing broken, Three friends and I were caught Stalk still in the light. Five of the lights. Why should they care for our eyes? Five deer stood there. They looked back, a good minute. They knew us, all right: Four chemical accidents of horror pausing Between one suicide or another On the passing wing Of an angel that cared no more for our biology, our pity, and our pain Than we care. Why should any mere multitude of the angels care To lay one blind white plume down On this outermost limit of something that is probably no more Than an aphid, An aphid which is one of the angels whose wings toss the black pears Of tears down on the secret shores Of the seas in the corner Of a poet’s closed eye. Why should five deer Gaze back at us? They gazed back at us. Afraid, and yet they stood there, More alive than we four, in their terror, In their good time. We had a dog. We could have got other dogs. Two or three dogs could have taken turns running and dragging down Those fleet lights, whose tails must look as mysterious as the Stars in Los Angeles. We are men. It doesn’t even satisfy us To kill one another. We are a smear of obscenity On the lake whose only peace Is a hole where the moon Abandoned us, that poor Girl who can’t leave us alone. If I were the moon I would shrink into a sand grain In the corner of the poet’s eye, While there’s still room. We are men. We are capable of anything. We could have killed every one of those deer. The very moon of lovers tore herself with the agony of a wounded tigress Out of our side. We can kill anything. We can kill our own bodies. Those deer on the hillside have no idea what in hell We are except murderers. They know that much, and don’t think They don’t. Man’s heart is the rotten yolk of a blacksnake egg Corroding, as it is just born, in a pile of dead Horse dung. I have no use for the human creature. He subtly extracts pain awake in his own kind. I am born one, out of an accidental hump of chemistry. I have no use. 2 But We didn’t set dogs on the deer, Even though we know, As well as you know, We could have got away with it, Because Who cares? 3 Boissevain, who was he? Was he human? I doubt it, From what I know Of men. Who was he, Hobbling with his dry eyes Along in the rain? I think he must have fallen down like the plumes of new snow, I think he must have fallen into the grass, I think he Must surely have grown around Her wings, gathering and being gathered, Leaf, string, anything she could use To build her still home of songs Within sound of water. 4 By God, come to that, I would have married her too, If I’d got the chance, and she’d let me. Think of that. Being alive with a girl Who could turn into a laurel tree Whenever she felt like it. Think of that. 5 Outside my window just now I can hear a small waterfall rippling antiphonally down over The stones of my poem.

For all the mysteries, engines, instruments, wherewith the world is filled, which we are able to frame and use to thy glory. For all the trades, variety of operations, cities, temples, streets, bridges, mariner's compass, admirable picture, sculpture, writing, printing, songs and music; wherewith the world is beautified and adorned. Much more for the regent life, And power of perception, Which rules within. That secret depth of fathomless consideration That receives the information Of all our senses, That makes our centre equal to the heavens, And comprehendeth in itself the magnitude of the world; The involv’d mysteries Of our common sense; The inaccessible secret Of perceptive fancy; The repository and treasury Of things that are past; The presentation of things to come; Thy name be glorified For evermore. O miracle Of divine goodness! O fire! O flame of zeal, and love, and joy! Ev’n for our earthly bodies, hast thou created all things. { visible All things { material { sensible Animals, Vegetables, Minerals, Bodies celestial, Bodies terrestrial, The four elements, Volatile spirits, Trees, herbs, and flowers, The influences of heaven, Clouds, vapors, wind, Dew, rain, hail and snow, Light and darkness, night and day, The seasons of the year. Springs, rivers, fountains, oceans, Gold, silver, and precious stones. Corn, wine, and oil, The sun, moon, and stars, Cities, nations, kingdoms. And the bodies of men, the greatest treasures of all, For each other. What then, O Lord, hast thou intended for our Souls, who givest to our bodies such glorious things!

Praise the rain; the seagull dive The curl of plant, the raven talk— Praise the hurt, the house slack The stand of trees, the dignity— Praise the dark, the moon cradle The sky fall, the bear sleep— Praise the mist, the warrior name The earth eclipse, the fired leap— Praise the backwards, upward sky The baby cry, the spirit food— Praise canoe, the fish rush The hole for frog, the upside-down— Praise the day, the cloud cup The mind flat, forget it all— Praise crazy. Praise sad. Praise the path on which we're led. Praise the roads on earth and water. Praise the eater and the eaten. Praise beginnings; praise the end. Praise the song and praise the singer. Praise the rain; it brings more rain. Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

I heard a child, a little under four years old, when asked what was meant by being in good spirits, answer, “It is laughing, talking, and kissing.” —CHARLES DARWIN, The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals 1.   WALDORF-ASTORIA EUPHORIA, THE JOY OF BIG CITIES Joy, when intense, leads to various purposeless movements—to dancing about, clapping the hands, stamping, etc.

It can happen like that: meeting at the market, buying tires amid the smell of rubber, the grating sound of jack hammers and drills, anywhere we share stories, and grace flows between us. The tire center waiting room becomes a healing place as one speaks of her husband's heart valve replacement, bedsores from complications. A man speaks of multiple surgeries, notes his false appearance as strong and healthy. I share my sister's death from breast cancer, her youngest only seven. A woman rises, gives her name, Mrs. Henry, then takes my hand. Suddenly an ordinary day becomes holy ground.