how to be a poet

"how to be a poet"
by Wendell Berry

(to remind myself)

i

Make a place to sit down.

Sit down. Be quiet.

You must depend upon

affection, reading, knowledge,

skill—more of each

than you have—inspiration,

work, growing older, patience,

for patience joins time

to eternity. Any readers

who like your poems,

doubt their judgment.

ii

Breathe with unconditional breath

the unconditioned air.

Shun electric wire.

Communicate slowly. Live

a three-dimensioned life;

stay away from screens.

Stay away from anything

that obscures the place it is in.

There are no unsacred places;

there are only sacred places

and desecrated places.

iii

Accept what comes from silence.

Make the best you can of it.

Of the little words that come

out of the silence, like prayers

prayed back to the one who prays,

make a poem that does not disturb

the silence from which it came.

accidental poem

The sister cries, big branches press squeaking.

The teacher laughs, animal warmth pervading.

The daughter fumes, little piles in all corners.

The lover wilts, dry corn medicine taste.

The nurse heals, back humping over notebook.

The policeman shivers, soft parts and hard parts of foot.

The aspirant tries, curve of fur breathing, blinking.

The traveler plans, wind or truck over cricket hum.

The runner treads, the days fuzz coating hard.

The yogi breathes, little hair wind twisted dry.

The caretaker relents, salt tears dry rivers.

The drinker abstains, sun and windburnt cheeks.

The poet whispers, long nails over itchy sides.

The being breathes, stormy night drifts in the window.

Bright Eyes- At the Bottom of Everything

We must talk in every telephone
Get eaten off the web
We must rip out all the epilogues in the books that we have read
And in the face of every criminal
Strapped firmly to a chair
We must stare, we must stare, we must stare

We must take all of the medicines too expensive now to sell
Set fire to the preacher who is promising us hell
And in the ear of every anarchist that sleeps but doesn’t dream
We must sing, we must sing, we must sing

It’ll go like this:

While my mother waters plants
My father loads his guns
He says death will give us back to God
Just like this setting sun is returned to this lonesome ocean

And then they splashed into the deep blue sea
It was a wonderful splash

We must blend into the choir
Sing as static with the whole
We must memorize nine numbers and deny we have a soul
And in this endless race for property and privilege to be won
We must run, we must run, we must run

We must hang up in the belfry
Where the bats and moonlight laugh
We must stare into a crystal ball and only see the past
And in the caverns of tomorrow
With just our flashlights and our love
We must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge

And then we’ll get down there, way down to the very bottom of everything
And then we’ll see it, oh we’ll see it, we’ll see it, we’ll see it

Oh my morning's coming back
The whole world’s waking up
All the city buses swimming past
I’m happy just because
I found out I am really no one

ebb and flow

sometimes

my heart fills up

like a big dumb balloon

bloated with blood and empathy

for the poor kid in the hall

the redneck in the aisle

my brother in the apartment

waves of filling

swelling against veinous walls

spilling over with threats

of open human love

other times

my heart closes up

criscrossed daggers

and gnarled liquorice roots

guarding, posturing tough

pettiness, which plays so rough

liquid flames fly high up

in the brain stem

primed for the mental manipulation

storing fantasies and plots

closed in grey tissue drawers

sometimes my heart is crushed

sometimes nothing is never enough

housewife

"Housewife" by Anne Sexton

Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart,
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day,
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.

words on paper

connections crumble

shift and shake

buried under

tectonic forces

of reality

words on paper remain

memory a mystery

life is [but] a dream

sleepytown

my great grandpoppy helped found

this little old sleepytown.

strolled into the tavern

straight from the U.K.

and knocked some injuns

upside the head

with an oak rifle butt

and they gave it to him.

the days when men took

by force, not deceit.

its been through the wringer,

my little sleepy town

soaked by the river

pounded with grime

flooded with trash

then forgotten

ten years ago I swore I'd never come back

but now I sit by the river each night

counting my blessings

small as they are,

even bigger they seem

fireflies glowing up the mud

crickets barking sounds in the trees

ropes dragging dead limbs

unrecognizable, unnameable

hoots and hollers

this old town got a chemical jolt

for awhile

hillbillies on three day benders

scratching, uncomfortable

faces caving on themselves

scrubbing cracks with toothbrushes

entertaining only delusions of grandeur

now the town is saturated

in junk, just as sure a death

though, somehow, things seem

more

elegant

slow

fog descending

morning drooping down

like sleeping powder

a girl in black boots stomps along

bus stop sitters, ever patient.

a strange music poster

in the feed store window.

the boy on the bike

with the skinny bare chest,

crooked hat, smoking, sneaky glances,

peddles circles along the trail

so slowly.

even the red house on the corner

has gone to sleep.

will this town ever die out?

sleep-wearied

riflemen fleeing in the night,

nature twining her viney arms

back around cracked concrete

at her own pace.