The Cricket in the Sump

He falls abruptly silent when we fling
A basket down or bang the dryer shut,
But soon takes up again where he left off.
Swept by a rainstorm through a narrow trough
Clotted with cobwebs into Lord knows what
Impenetrable murk, he’s undeterred—
You’d think his dauntless solo was a chorus,
This rusty sump, a field or forest spring.
And there is something wondrous and absurd
About the way he does as he is bidden
By instinct, with his gift for staying hidden
While making sure unseen is plainly heard.

All afternoon his tremolo ascends
Clear to the second story, where a girl
Who also has learned blithely to ignore us
Sings to herself behind her bedroom door.
Maybe she moves to her invented score
With a conductor’s flourish, or pretends
She’s a Spanish dancer, lost in stamp and whirl
And waving fan—notes floating, as she plays,
Through the open window where the willow sways
And shimmers, humming to another string.
There is no story where the story ends.
What does a singer live for but to sing?

-- Catherine Tuffariello (1963- ), American poet and professor at Valparaiso University.

spring song

the green of Jesus

is breaking the ground

and the sweet

smell of delicious Jesus

is opening the house and

the dance of Jesus music

has hold of the air and

the world is turning

in the body of Jesus and

the future in possible

--Lucille Clifton (1936-2010), African American poet, writer, and educator, poet laureate of Mary;and, and to-time finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in poetry.

Tripping Over Joy

What is the difference
Between your experience of Existence
And that of a saint?

The saint knows
That the spiritual path
Is a sublime chess game with God

And that the Beloved
Has just made such a Fantastic Move

That the saint is now continually
Tripping over Joy
And bursting out in Laughter
And saying, "I Surrender!"

Whereas, my dear,
I am afraid you still think

You have a thousand serious moves.


-Hafiz (ca 1320-1389), Persian Sufi master and mystic poet, translated by Daniel Ladinsky

Joy

I went to look for Joy,

Slim, dancing Joy,
Gay, laughing Joy,
Bright-eyed Joy,—
And I found her
Driving the butcher’s cart
In the arms of the butcher boy!
Such company, such company,
As keeps this young nymph, Joy!

-- Langston Hughes (1901-1967), African American poet, playwright, and novelist, leader of the Harlem Renaissance

Whatever is Foreseen in Joy

Whatever is foreseen in joy
Must be lived out from day-to-day,
Vision held open in the dark
By our 10,000 days of work.
Harvest will fill the barn; for that
The hand must ache, the face must sweat.

And yet no leaf or grain is filled
By work of ours; the field is tilled
And left to grace. That we may reap,
Great work is done while we are asleep.

When we work well, a Sabbath mood
Rests on our day, and finds it good.



-- Wendell Berry (1934- ), American poet, novelist, essayist, farmer, and agrarian philosopher

Scripture reference: James 5:7-10, Advent 3A

Sing Out O Earth!

Psalm 96


Sing out, O Earth,
Bowl thrown on God’s wheel--
turning from your slumber like a drowsy child,
humming with joy as you spin beneath our feet
spinning like a top within a jetty of the Milky Way.

Sing out, O Earth:
Home of the martins swooping in arrow-flight,
perch of the kestrel and owl and waxwing
shelter of the rabbit, shyly scuttling through grasstufts.
You hold the whale within your cupped hands;
gratefully receiving each fallen leaf,
humus alive with industry and rebirth
(if we pondered it, would we ever tread so heedlessly?).

Sing out, O Earth—
Gathering yourself beneath the blanket of snow
with the promise of green ready to spring forth--
like a panther after its prey.
Sending winds to set the dogwood blossoms dancing,
bedecked with gaily waving blanket flowers and lupine
enticing the improbably aloft bumblebee

You carry us like a mother, gravid, arms slung
around the delicate body of her child.
Your shadow waxes full across the face of the Moon,
skimming like a raft through the velvet sea of night.

Sing out, O Earth!
and call us to join the harmony
major third, perfect fourth, minor fifth.
Let the springs murmur,
let the rivers unravel and spool out their tale,
let the oceans scrub your shores
leaving behind their tokens of sea-glass and shell
as they trace a path along your side.

Sing out, O Earth,
and join the chorus of constellations.
The trees of the wood shout “Alleluia” in joy,
while the rest of creation waits
in breathless hope and wonder--

The Star moves restlessly to illumine the scene
and the Magi jerk awake from their dreams
to set out for unknown lands;
the shepherds stir uneasily from their tower,
the young mother gasps as the pains begin.
Sing out with her, and receive the glad news--
The Prince of Peace approaches.

-- Leslie Scoopmire, December 2021.

A version of this poem was first published on Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 23, 2021.

little tree

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid

look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

--e. e. cummings (1894-1962), American poet, painter, and playwright

A Blessing

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, 

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. 

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies 

Darken with kindness. 

They have come gladly out of the willows 

To welcome my friend and me. 

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture 

Where they have been grazing all day, alone. 

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness 

That we have come. 

They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. 

There is no loneliness like theirs. 

At home once more, 

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. 

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, 

For she has walked over to me 

And nuzzled my left hand. 

She is black and white, 

Her mane falls wild on her forehead, 

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear 

That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist. 

Suddenly I realize 

That if I stepped out of my body I would break 

Into blossom.


-- James Wright (1927-1980), American poet, from Above the River: The Complete Poems & Selected Prose (edited by Anne Wright), 1990.

Laughter

What is laughter? 

What is laughter?
It is God waking up! 

O it is God waking up! 

It is the sun poking its sweet head out

From behind a cloud
You have been carrying too long,
Veiling your eyes and heart.

It is Light breaking ground for a great Structure 

That is your Real body- called Truth.

It is happiness applauding itself and then taking flight 

To embrace everyone and everything in this world.

Laughter is the polestar
Held in the sky by our Beloved, 

Who eternally says,

"Yes, dear ones, come this way, 

Come this way toward Me and Love!

Come with your tender mouths moving
And your beautiful tongues conducting songs
And with your movements - your magic movements 

Of hands and feet and glands and cells - Dancing!

Know that to God's Eye,
All movement is a Wondrous Language, 

And Music - such exquisite, wild Music!"

O what is laughter, Hafiz?
What is this precious love and laughter 

Budding in our hearts?

It is the glorious sound 

Of a soul waking up!

--Hafiz of Shiraz (1310-1390), Sufi, and one of the greatest Persian lyric poets

Today

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.

- Billy Collins (1941- ), American poet and US poet laureate 2001-2003

Song from "Pippa Passes"

The year's at the spring

And the day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven:

The hill-side dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn;

God's in his heaven--

All's right with the world!

-- Robert Browning (1812-1889), British poet

Sometimes

Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile,
but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.

--Thich Nhat Hahn (1926- ), Vietnamese Zen Buddhist monk, peace activist, teacher, poet, and writer


Photo: Dance of Joy, St. Lucia, 2013, Photo mine

Uvavnuk Shaman Song (untitled)

The great sea
frees me, moves me,
as a strong river carries a weed.
Earth and her strong winds move me, take me away,
and my soul is swept up in joy.

-- anonymous shaman, Uvavnuk (Iglulik Eskimo, 19th century), translated by Jane Hirshfield

Photo: undated, Inuit in kayaks.

I Worried

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

--Mary Oliver (1935- ), American poet, from Swan: Poems and Prose Poems, 2010

Jubilate (Psalm 100)

All the earth cries out with joy to you,
serving you with gladness;
coming before you, singing for joy.
You, Creator of all, are God.
You made us; we belong to you.
We are your people, the sheep of your flock.
We go within your gates giving thanks,
entering your courts with songs of praise.
We give thanks to you and bless your name,
Indeed how good you are, O God,
eternal in your merciful love.
You are faithful from age to age.

--from the Community of St. Francis Office Book

Green, Green Is My Sister's House

Don’t you dare climb that tree
or even try, they said, or you will be
sent away to the hospital of the
very foolish, if not the other one.
And I suppose, considering my age
it was fair advice.
But the tree is a sister to me, she
lives alone in a green cottage
high in the air and I know what
would happen, she’d clap her green hands,
she’d shake her green hair, she’d
welcome me. Truly
I try to be good but sometimes
a person just has to break out and
act like the wild and springy thing
one used to be. It’s impossible not
to remember wild and want it back. So
if someday you can’t find me you might
look into that tree or—of course
it’s possible—under it.

--Mary Oliver, (1935- )
from A Thousand Mornings