Celtic House Blessing

God, bless the world and all that is therein.
God, bless my spouse and my children,
God, bless the eye that is in my head,
And bless, O God, the handling of my hand;
What time I rise in the morning early,
What time I lie down late in bed,
Bless my rising in the morning early,
And my lying down late in bed.
God, protect the house, and the household,
God, consecrate the children of the motherhood,
God, encompass the flocks and the young;
Be Thou after them and tending them,
What time flocks ascend hill and wold,
What time I lie down to sleep,
What time flocks ascend hill and wold,
What time I lie down in peace to sleep.

-- from the Carmina Gadelica I, collected by Alexander Carmichael, Scots folklorist

Blessing (Be each saint in heaven)

Be each saint in heaven,
Each sainted woman in heaven,
Each angel in heaven
Stretching their arms for you,
Smoothing the way for you,
When you go thither
Over the river hard to see;
Oh when you go thither home
Over the river hard to see. 

-- from the Carmina Gadelica III

Winter Trees

All the complicated details 
of the attiring and 
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among 
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds 
against a sure winter 
the wise trees 
stand sleeping in the cold.

--William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), Puerto Rican-American poet, physician, and pediatrician, US poet laureate denied office due to McCarthyism, and Pulitzer Prize winner

Taking Down the Tree

"Give me some light!" cries Hamlet's
uncle midway through the murder
of Gonzago. "Light! Light!" cry scattering
courtesans. Here, as in Denmark,
it's dark at four, and even the moon
shines with only half a heart.

The ornaments go down into the box:
the silver spaniel, My Darling
on its collar, from Mother's childhood
in Illinois; the balsa jumping jack
my brother and I fought over,
pulling limb from limb. Mother 
drew it together again with thread 
while I watched, feeling depraved
at the age of ten. 

With something more than caution 
I handle them, and the lights, with their 
tin star-shaped reflectors, brought along 
from house to house, their pasteboard 
toy suitcases increasingly flimsy. 
Tick, tick, the desiccated needles drop.

By suppertime all that remains is the scent
of balsam fir. If it's darkness
we're having, let it be extravagant.

--Jane Kenyon  (1947-1995), American poet and translator, from Collected Poems (2005)

Lines for Winter

   for Ros Krauss 

Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.

--Mark Strand (1934-2014) Canadian-American poet and US poet laureate 1990-1991

A Psalm to Wisdom

In the pouring forth of wisdom 
   all things have their being; 
   wisdom in my shining, 
   wisdom beyond me shining. 

All things are branches 
   of the Tree of wisdom 
   wisdom in me growing, 
   wisdom beyond me growing. 

In the circle of being 
   all things share a blessing; 
   wisdom in me turning, 
   wisdom beyond me turning.

-- Chinook prayer, from Chinook Psalter II, ed. by Lee Henderson, found at Friends of Silence.

Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing

Lift ev'ry voice and sing, 
Till earth and heaven ring, 
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty; 
Let our rejoicing rise 
High as the list'ning skies, 
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea. 
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us, 
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us; 
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun, 
Let us march on till victory is won. 

Stony the road we trod, 
Bitter the chast'ning rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered.
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past, 
Till now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears, 
Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way; 
Thou who hast by Thy might, 
Led us into the light, 
Keep us forever in the path, we pray. 
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee, 
Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee; 
Shadowed beneath Thy hand, 
May we forever stand, 
True to our God, 
True to our native land.

--James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938), African American poet, writer, professor, diplomat, and Executive Secretary of the NAACP, from the Hymnal 1982 of the Episcopal Church

O Star-flinging God

O Star-flinging God,
whose light dances across eternity,
       dazzle us into your presence
       this new year.
Open our hearts to the mystery of your love.

Awaken us to your presence,
       knit to the ordinary.
Reveal to us what is possible, but not yet present.
Heal us, that we might be healers.

Reconcile us to you and to ourselves,
       that our living might be reconciling.

Stop us often, we pray
       with news that is good
       with hope that holds
       with truth that transforms with a Word
              tailored to this trail we're on.

May the word of your grace guide our steps
       like the sun by day
       and the north star by night,
       as we travel into the gift of a new year. Amen.

— written by Glenn Mitchell, and posted on MINemergent’s Daily Communique.

After the Gentle Poet Kobayashi Issa

New Year’s morning—
everything is in blossom!
   I feel about average.

   A huge frog and I 
 staring at each other,
   neither of us moves. 

  This moth saw brightness
in a woman’s chamber—
   burned to a crisp.

   Asked how old he was
the boy in the new kimono
   stretched out all five fingers.

   Blossoms at night,
like people
   moved by music

   Napped half the day;
no one
   punished me!

Fiftieth birthday:

   From now on,
It’s all clear profit
   every sky.

   Don’t worry, spiders,
I keep house
   casually.

  These sea slugs,
they just don’t seem
  Japanese.

Hell:

   Bright autumn moon;
pond snails crying
   in the saucepan.

--Robert Hass (1941- ), American poet and US Poet Laureate 1995-1997, from Field Guide, 1973.

(not shutting up)

not shutting up

New Year morning's late riser...

the crow

--Kobayashi Issa, (1763-1828), Japanese poet, haiku master, and lay Zen priest, translated by Daniel Lanoue, written in 1811

.だまつても行ぬやけさの遅烏
damatte mo yukanu ya kesa no oso karasu