poetry

Writing poetry has been immensely healing for me over the years.
I experience it as a collaborative process, a dialogue with the great mystery, a greater intelligence. Through poetry I can express myself more fully than in many other ways- I can write through pain, confusion, grief and overwhelm and sometimes words emerge like an answer to my questions and struggles. I take refuge in poetry.
When writing a novel, I start with an idea, flesh it out and follow the lead of the characters- but a poem enters differently: wilder, faster, in a more instinctual and primal way. Often a poem finds me rather than me finding it. Sometimes I hear a single line and I know that a poem is coming.
Then I better sit down and let it come to me, flow through me and take notation. It will be gone if I don’t listen, it won’t linger long…
In these uncertain and challenging times, I want to share some of my own poetry and other poems of writers and poets whose work I cherish.
Some of the poems have also been written in response to the current crisis.
I hope you find them uplifting and inspiring!
If you have a poem that you feel would sit well in this collection, please email me evieweaver@gmail.com
I also write erotic poetry- you can read and hear some on Soundcloud HERE
****

Blessings of the Ancients by Eva Weaver
May you have courage
to step through the door that is opening before you
boldly cross the threshold of your constricted heart
and walk in power across the empty space.
May you gather the riches of your soul
body and heart
the places that feel abandoned and lost
and hold them tenderly.
May you gather yourself up and stand tall
yes, taller than ever before.
May you dress in golden robes just for yourself
and gather your wild creatures around you:
wolf and snake, lion and eagle, bear and owl
and gazelle too.
May you walk in grace, lady of the beasts
Queen of your own soul.
May you have heart and know in your blood and bones
that life has unimaginable riches to offer you still
that your hunger will be stilled
and your thirst be slated as you sit
at the banquet of companionship,
friendship and love.
May you know that nothing is ever lost
and all and everything is possible
that you can stop treading on eggshells and
open deeper and deeper to the magic
that is aching to find you.
May you feel your worth always
and may you know in your bones that the old ones
and the ancients walk closely with you and have your back
always.
May you open to the world as wide and deep as the ocean
but equally discerning as the sacred needle penetrating your flesh
and the golden knife cutting away all that no longer serves
to open you to the new like never before.
May you know long nights of love making
rapture and ecstasy
strong arms and fierce hearts
meeting you, holding you
loving you.
May you know generosity and kindness
love and devotion from many sources.
May the warmth of tribe comfort you
friends and soul family hold you.
May feasts and laughter be alight at your long table
and all your visions and dreams come true.
May your light shine so brightly
and warm all those who hunger for it.
May you rise and soar and shine
and may you feel loved and cherished
desired and held
always.
****

Chrysalis
There it hangs
the chrysalis of humanhood
all certainty suspended
the caterpillar of greed
and carelessness
dissolved
after its ruthless rampage.
It is no more.
We are plunged into the dark
into unknowing and non-doing
the illusion of control
ripped from our hands.
And while the terror
of loss and illness
and death
sweeps across the world
taking, taking
this one and that one,
the chrysalis of humanhood
hangs
suspended
waiting
waiting.
All we know is
that nothing
will be
as it was
ever again.
But there can be no transformation
without loss of form and face
and now is the time
to return to the primordial soup
to surrender to the dark
to rest
to let go
to suspend knowing and striving
and efforting
to listen deeply in the dark
to your heartbeat
and to the rushing in your blood
that tells of love and longing
to listen for one another there in the dark
and for the humming
of brighter
kinder visions.
Let it all be
your fear
your terror
your loneliness
until the imaginal cells stir
until we
the imaginal cells
stir
until we
find each other in new clusters
until we
vision and weave and build
something new
from this darkness.
And we know
something
will inevitably come
something
grown from fear
but also
from surrender
to that deep
darkness.
And whatever is born once it is time
once the chrysalis breaks open
wings will have been painted
with humbleness-
ours
and the world’s.
Or so I hope.
So let us know each other
sitting in that dark together
listening
and visioning
a different
future.
Eva Weaver 28th of March 2020

This life
that gives so abundantly
and takes
in such cruel measures too,
this life
is all we have-
longing, fulfilment, loss-
one breath at a time
one thought, one bite of bread at a time
one step, one moment, hour, day at a time
one embrace and touch at a time
is all we have.
Is all we need.
Except
there is no embrace
nor touch from another for me right now
only the touch and embrace
I extend
to myself.
And so
one caress, one touch
one embrace at a time
I pull myself out of the hole
and hold myself.
We all do what we can
not only to survive
but to live aligned with the exuberance of spring
and when we manage, it is a feast:
lungs filled with breath right into the tips
thoughts tumbling into shapes of poetry
cheeks filled with the delight of freshly baked bread
and feet kissing the earth with their soles
receiving assurance
that
all is well.
And when I look up
I see that spring is more glorious than ever-
four shade of lilac grace my eyes
and hundreds of greens
and the peonies
are waiting to burst
open
and spill their beauty
and really there is
nothing
like the exuberance of peonies
to remind me
that
all is well
and that we will
hold each other again
and that
when the times comes
it will be
so, so sweet.
18th of May 2020

The Truth is Breath
The truth is breath
In the beginning
and in the end
is breath.
The first
and the last breath
and in between
the lifelong miracle of it:
inhale
exhale
come into me
I let you go
come into me
I let you go…
The truth is
solidity is an easily shattered illusion
for all and everything
is in flux
always.
The truth is breath.
There’s a miracle that happens in our lungs:
in-breath streaming through the bronchial tree
into smaller and smaller branches
until the minute gap
the meeting place of air and blood:
alveoli and capillaries
where in an exquisite dance of give and take
they exchange oxygen and carbon dioxide:
receive
release
come into me
I let you go
come into me
I let you go…
As in-breath meets blood
the veins say thank you, oxygen
and carry the rich blood
to the left side of the heart.
And the good heart
pumps the rich blood
into the whole beautiful body
until it returns to the right side of the heart
rich in carbon dioxide.
And the artery says, thank you
and carries the blood back to the lungs
to pick up oxygen once more.
And all the while
in the gap of blood and air
carbon transfers to the alveoli
and we breathe it
out…
The truth is breath.
Nothing lives without it:
no human
no creature
no tree
though of course the tree’s breathing
is a mirror opposite of ours:
taking in carbon
exhaling the precious oxygen
that we,
humans,
creatures
breathe in-
that we,
humans
creatures
need.
And my dear lungs remember everything:
the breathlessness of childhood pneumonia
when as a three years old I lay alone in a hospital bed
the miracle of breath interrupted
alveoli filled with fluid, their walls thickened
unable to upkeep their magical dance.
My lungs learned everything then
about the precariousness of life
about loneliness and isolation
and I could have easily slipped away then-
but I didn’t-
instead my stubborn lungs and heart
worked tirelessly to recover
to return the dance
to return me to the miracle
of this exchange:
inhale
exhale
come into me
I let you go
come into me
I let you go…
And when later the asthma hit
again and again
the bronchi tree contracting
in spasms and mucus
I grew tired,
so tired of the coughing
the helplessness and hopelessness
the loneliness
and of the grief of it all.
The lungs are the home of grief
they say
and grief for sure did nestle there
in my lungs wreaking havoc
choking me, taking my breath.
What do you want, grief?
I asked when I embarked on a journey
to enquire, skeptical and beat,
but hoping to heal.
I entered a maze of memories
and went deep and deeper within.
I found ghosts lurking at every corner
until at the centre
the very centre
I found grief, sitting there
holding my gaze calmly.
What do you want, grief?
I asked once more.
The truth is breath, grief said.
And this is your journey now:
to pay attention to the mystery of breath-
yours
your beloved’s
your neighbour’s
your pets’s
your plants’s
your fellow world citizens’s
precious breath:
inhale
exhale
come into me
I let you go…
The truth is breath, grief said.
Honour the tree within
and the trees without
honour all that breathes
and listen to me
listen to grief-
yours and the world’s
and then prepare yourself
for the big
exhale
for the deep
letting go.
3rd of April 2020

Sorrow in my hands
Last night
my hands broke their silence
and spoke.
We’re so clean, they said,
scrubbed and washed mornings,
midday, evenings and before and after
everything…
we’re closer to godliness than ever
but we are tired
and raw
and what is the point
for we’re not touching
even one
other
human
being.
We’ve nowhere to go and dance
and even the familiar furrows and hills
of your nose and lips and mouth
that we’ve known all of our life
and your forehead and cheeks
that usually nestle so perfectly in our palms
that we touch and hold and caress-
now we shouldn’t even touch those?
We move through the day
un-held
and un-touched
and yes, we keep busy
for when we stop
we weep.
Last night
my hands broke their silence
and spoke.
They spoke of the sorrow of this time
and of all the times before
when they reached out and found nothing but air
when they reached out but found no-one
to meet them
to caress them
to hold them.
They spoke of sorrow
as they remember the beloved friend’s touch
and the hands of my father
old and veined
but always warm and soft
and willing to reach out
to reach
me.
My hands grieve the loss of give and receive
the curious touch
the holding and being held
even the absentminded, accidental touch-
they miss it all.
Oh, and I tried to comfort them.
Look, my dear hands, I said,
there’s always the exquisitely soft fur of the cat
warm and silky to your touch
and the cool belly of the snake
that glides smoothy underneath your palms, trusting your touch
and the moist, crumbly earth as I set the seeds
and the delicate new hawthorn shoots I pick-
aren’t they a delight to you, my fingers?
And the stinging nettle that is waking the back of my hand?
And the trees whose bark skins
I so love exploring with you, my dear palms.
And look,
the keyboard is still willing as ever to surrender under you,
my dear fingers
and you, my hands, you still wrap around a warm mug
and embrace it as if it was the precious grail
letting its warmth penetrate deeply-
and don’t you forget,
there is always the heart breath-
one palm placed gently over the other
over chest and heart
for comfort and love.
All of this helps, doesn’t it?
And don’t you know I love you?
I love you, my good hands
don’t you know you’re so important to me
my warm palms
my good, curious fingers?
But they won’t have it.
You used to read your lover like braille, they say.
Your devotion and love danced whole choreographies
over his body, wandering hills and valleys of flesh and bones-
and now what?
I know, I know.
My hands have ached with this loss for a while
and right now there is no comfort on the horizon
as we lie marooned in this no-man’s land of a lockdown
unable to welcome the touch of another
of a new other,
a new lover.
And you used to hug and hold your beloved friends
they say,
and hold your father’s hands in yours
and now you strain to remember.
I know, I know.
My hands are aching with this loss-
but I do remember
I do remember it all so well.
And once my hands have spoken
the rest of my body joins in too:
my feet speak- they ache
and my ankles and legs ache
and my hips are stiff
my sex is numb
my belly is a hungry creature
and my breasts are heavy
with longing.
And this is my guilty secret:
I have barely managed to touch myself.
And there are moments
when suddenly my skin screams at me:
please touch me!
Someone caress me!Someone hold me!
Moments, when the missing touch of now
echoes the hungry touch-starved times of my past
those long stretches when I lived
on morsels or even without.
And then shame comes.
And then sorrow
and anger
and grief.
But when I finally take myself
to the sea and let my hands play in the
cool, salty water
I remember.
I remember that
all of this passed then
and all of this shall pass too now
and that I am hurting means
that I am still
alive!
And the ache in my hands
for you and you and you
reminds me
of pleasure
and love
and desire
and that
before the feast of meeting you again
holding you again
you and you and you-
before all that
I have to hold
myself.
And so I do.
I thank my hands
my feet
my ankles and legs
my hips
my sex
my breasts
for simply being with me
in this.
And I hold myself.
I hug myself
caress myself
touch myself
I coax pleasure to the surface of my skin
and wrap myself in my own strong arms.
I hold myself
with kindness
and love
and compassion
and I let the exquisitely soft fur of the cat
and the cool belly of the snake
and the moist, crumbly earth
and the delicate new hawthorn shoots
and the stinging nettle
and the trees bark skins
penetrate my palms deeply.
And then I lay on the ground
and let the earth
the good earth
hold m
hold me
good.
18th of April 2020
Art by Jana Brike

What’s Alive
What’s alive
is the wind
howling
as it catches in the door
the wind not letting up for days now.
What’s alive
is the cat
my furry blessing
that came to me just before lockdown
exploding now into bursts of activity
then sleeping for hours.
What’s alive
are the clouds
forming, journeying over the soft hills
shapeshifting
dissolving.
What’s alive
are the birds
soaring
cutting the sky with their wings.
What’s alive
are the shoots of seeds
uncurling in my little pots
holding in their tiny leaves
the promise of red ripe tomatoes
sometimes
in that far away future summer.
What’s alive
are the questions:
When will I laugh again in a lover’s arms?
When will I write again in community around a wooden table?
When will I eat a meal again with my friends,
feeling their hands in mine as we speak a blessing?
When will I kiss someone again?
And who will be there if I fall ill?
And will I see you again?
And you? And you? And you?
What’s alive
is love
for the wind, for the furry blessing, for the clouds
for the birds
for the shoots of seeds
and for you
and you
and you.
31st of March 2020

Shedding by Eva Weaver
Do you hear it?
This soft rustle as I slide and slither
out of my old skin?
Do you hear it?
This sweet sound of my shedding?
It’s the skin of my victimhood, peeling, shedding
and me
noticed by no one but myself,
slithering out.
There is still pain, oh yes
there is still grief and despair
there is still a cracked and broken heart
but that old skin
is dead.
And as I wake in the darkest hour of the night
my heart pounding
I sob and moan
but still
I cannot
I cannot
slip back into the old crumpled skin.
Instead
I run my fingers tenderly over my new home:
skin so raw and alive and so unknown.
I marvel over its glistening beauty
that feels everything so acutely
yet differently than anything it felt in the old skin.
Lying awake
I touch myself in all my places
hello new skin
hello new colour
hello new texture
hello new smell.
And when I finally find my heart
I hold its exquisite beauty
in my hands all night long until the first light of dawn
and one at a time
I fill its cracks
with
gold.
***

Notes from the Ancients by Eva Weaver
Nothing new comes from the old hurt
the old stump
the old resentment.
Come,
take your broom and sweep your heart
sweep the soot of your fruitless fires
the struggles that came to nothing but ash.
Sweep your heart,
clean it with the water of your tears
with the breath of your dreams
the air of your visions-
nothing can withstand the power of your vision.
Like an arrow, sharp and decided
it must find its goal
it cannot fail.
You are your own flight.
So sharpen your intent and cleanse your heart
pull up the fish bone stuck in your throat
and speak your truth!
Speak it without fear or shame
without cringing, without pathos
speak your truth and let yourself be
received.
Throw yourself out into the ocean of life like a long line
a big net-
there is much to catch.
And when a skeleton is caught in the line
pull it up and greet it- you know what to do.
Do not to shrink from it, but see it for what it is:
bones that need tending to
like your garden
that need loving, singing over, dreaming over.
The bones of your dreams will take you far.
And always keep moving:
your every thought, your every breath
carries you forward
unfolding a perfect path before you.
Do not rest in any one form
as like a dress or a suit it can be stripped from you
suddenly ripped off in a fire, an assault of illness
a whim of life, a death.
Open your lungs wide, even if it hurts
that way life can take you to a place of wonderment.
And yes, we are all artists
but we have to choose to live this flame
there is nothing grandiose about it
the flesh and bones of the artist
are as delicate as those of the city player.
There are no guarantees.
So choose wisely, choose every day
and when your bones hurt
embrace the night and the starlight
that is older than any sun.
Keep breathing
keep shaping your world
and know that nothing
every really goes away.
We die and we live
and we die
and we keep dancing.
For nothing that once was will ever be again
everything changes
always:
atoms, molecules
dancing, whirling, shifting
within, without.
We are all made from stardust.
So shake your limbs until your bones rattle
shake them like a feather bed-you will lie better in it.Shake,
shake your limbs
give yourself in red abandon
let your blood run fast
shatter your breath
and
always
always
keep dancing.
****

Whispers by Eva Weaver
Come, beloved
I hear her whisper when I finally cry,
look out of the window towards the wonder
of magpies and wood pigeons
dancing and resting in your tree
and the crows
whirling, despite the fog and rain
all the birds gathering twigs
following the pulse of the impending spring
old as time.
But, what is my work now in these times, I say?
.Ah, she says,
let go of the frantic planning and thinking
you will adapt quickly enough to the new landscap
but not before you let your fists relax.
Let them open
let you palms be upturned towards the wide sky
open to the new design that will settle there in time.
It cannot be forced
but I promise
it will fall like snowflakes into your palms:
a new pattern of ideas and purpose
and a deep knowing of your own unique medicine
for you to share.
But, what about the leaden fear in my chest, I say?
Dear one, she says,
please stop and rest, at least for a while
and let your fear of isolation be what it is:
fear.
Nor more, nor less.
And know this is not the deeper truth
not yours, nor anyones
for you are held always in the web of life
and all this is still here:
your pulse
your breath
the rushing of your blood
and gravity
supporting you
holding you.
But what about the loneliness, I say?
Come, she says,
soften into that tender place underneath your breastbone
and lean back
lean against a cushion
lean into the ground
mostly
lean into grace
and into the helpers invisible to the eyes:
those from different realms
who are waiting for your invitation
to come closer
to support you
to wrap you in their warmth
(for they are masters of consent and will not trespass
your boundaries, but patiently await your prayers)
feel the long line of your ancestors
at your back
the stream of warmth and light
flowing towards you.
Ah, but what about the lonely nights?
Beloved, she says,
just hear the terrors out
let them have their voice but don’t let them swallow you.
Grieve and wail and stomp if you must
do what you need to do
but then turn your back and step away
and let them be.
For terror is only that:
a shadow mirage and fear-mongerer,
not a truth sayer.
Beloved, she says,
walk and dance, open your window and breathe
sing across the streets
and reach out to those who welcome both your shine and your fears
who can sit with you in the dark
and lift your spirit
those who are as naked as you are.
Hold and let yourself be held more deeply than ever
if not in embraces
but still enveloped in words and looks and smiles.
Fall into your own depth
the core and centre of your being
reach out wide
and weave yourself into the fabric of life
and feel yourself a unique part of the weaving.
Know yourself well
belonging
right here
right now.

Counting Blessings
In these times
counting blessings
is no luxury
but a necessity
not to slither down that slippery slope,
that rabbit hole of fear.
And look, she says, the ancient,
each day is still a blessing
despite the ever shifting ground:
there’s a concert of gulls just outside your window
young and old ones mingling
as they catch the thermo under their wings
cutting the air, gliding effortlessly
circling high.
And the sycamore
speckled with magpies, ten of them,
bobbing on branches, their tails dancing
chattering, working something out.
And the wood pigeon
balanced on the top of the elder
nibbles at the first buds
and the horses, frisky and alert
pound the hills with bursts of galloping
before they graze again
demolishing with gusto the new shoots
as they always have,
each and every spring.
And the sun is gathering strength
happy to lend us her joy
as always
and the tide
has not stopped its coming and going
and the cats still hunt mice and lick their fur clean and shiny
and the air smells still of the sea.
Go with the wind, not against it,
she says, catch the thermo
trust the tide
nibble the spring shoots
and await the impending spring
still
with a joyous heart.
Most of all,
count your blessings, human,
count your blessings.
Eva Weaver , 26th of March 2020

Weaving in the dark
We weave in the dark
in these times.
The colours might be duller and muted
or even brighter
but we can’t see
we won’t know the patterns we are weaving
until some future
much further along.
But we can still dream it
this future
we can still dream
of companionship and love
of sitting together around tables
sharing meals and feasts and holding hands
saying grace
with new words
shaped in the dark
overflowing from our grateful mouths
in that future.
We can still dream
of rapture and abandon
of a new lover
a first kiss
a first dancing of tongues and fingers
a first swarm of butterflies taking flight in our belly’s cave
a first swelling and melting and gushing.
It will be a while
but today
the horses are still frisky
galloping in small herds across the green hills
stirred by the wind
and by the whispers
of spring awakenings.
22nd of March 2020

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Break by Brooke McNamara
Rest, now.
Let the weight you run from every day
now draw you down.
Later there will be time to tend
to everything left undone.
Now, rest.
Fall
into your own bones
lying horizontal on this ground.
Come
into your dark corners.
Come into this
original nakedness
under all the layers.
Come where all your losses
split
you
open.
Don’t rise,
yet —
rest.
Be drawn deeper down
into the salt tide of tears.
Let grief wash you,
then drown you
beyond the name
you first were given,
when you reached to touch
your own mother’s face for the very first time,
and she smiled her light down into you
Now reach those same fingers
for the face of infinity —
so that, opening your eyes,
you will know
the one dreaming you
is pleased with you,
that everything seen
is your self,
and that now is the time
to rise wholehearted into the work
aching to be animated
by precisely you.
*******
Lost by David Wagoner
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
***

By John O’Donohue
On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.
And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets into you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green
and azure blue,
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.
When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.
***********************

John O’Donahue, Eternal Echoes
“The Blessings of You”
May you trust the beauty in your reflection as you witness the myriad of colors that are lovingly shown to you.
You are, in fact, a culmination of multi-dimensional stardust.
You are, in fact, an exquisite rendering of the Divine.
You are, in fact, an innocent and blessed work of art.
You are, in fact, loved.
Your job here on this Earth, is to unravel all that has held you back from recognizing and acknowledging these truths.
Perhaps your journey has led you far from ever conceiving of these truths.
Perhaps you have been buried under mountains of pain.
Perhaps you have been told many lies, and in hearing them, you adopted them and told them to yourself.
Perhaps you have been confused and frustrated by the paradox of seeking.
Perhaps you have given your power to others because they seem to “know” better.
Perhaps you have given your map away, forgetting that you hold your True North within you.
Perhaps you didn’t know that you are the blazing lighthouse guiding your path.
You are the beginning and the end of all that you are.
You are at choice to co-create the miracles that are waiting on the cusp of your acceptance.
You are the manifestation of all that you called to you, whether wanted or unwanted, conscious or unconscious.
You are the one you have been waiting for.
And what a gift you have given yourself.

Everything Is Waiting for You by David Whyte
Listen
Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice. You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the
conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

by Antonio Machado
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.
Poetry for uncertain times- during the corona virus crisis
By Lynn Ungar
What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.
And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives
are in one another’s hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.
Promise this world your love–
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.
********

Wash Your Hands by Dori Midnight
We are humans relearning to wash our hands.
Washing our hands is an act of love
Washing our hands is an act of care
Washing our hands is an act that puts the hypervigilant body at ease
Washing our hands helps us return to ourselves by washing away what
does not serve.
Wash your hands
like you are washing the only teacup left
that your great grandmother carried across the ocean,
like you are washing the hair of a beloved who is dying,
like you are washing the feet of Grace Lee Boggs, Beyonce, Jesus,
your auntie, Audre Lorde, Mary Oliver- you get the picture.
Like this water is poured from a jug your best friend
just carried for three miles from the spring
they had to climb a mountain to reach.
Like water is a precious resource made from time and miracle
Wash your hands and cough into your elbow, they say.
Rest more, stay home, drink water, have some soup, they say.
To which I would add: burn some plants your ancestors
burned when there was fear in the air,
Boil some aromatic leaves in a pot on your stove
until your windows steam up.
Open your windows
Eat a piece of garlic every day. Tie a clove around your neck.
Breathe.
My friends, it is always true, these things.
It has already been time.
It is always true that we should move with care and intention, asking
Do you want to bump elbows instead? with everyone we meet.
It is always true that people are living with one lung,
with immune systems that don’t work so well,
or perhaps work too hard, fighting against themselves.
It is already true that people are hoarding the things that the most vulnerable need.
It is already time that we might want to fly on airplanes
less and not go to work when we are sick.
It is already time that we might want to know
who in our neighborhood has cancer,
who has a new baby, who is old, with children in another state,
who has extra water, who has a root cellar,
who is a nurse, who has a garden full of elecampane and nettles.
It is already time that temporarily non-disabled people
think about people living with chronic illness and disabled folks,
that young people think about old people.
It is already time to stop using synthetic fragrances
to not smell like bodies, to pretend like we’re all not dying.
It is already time to remember that those scents make so many of us sick.
It is already time to not take it personally when someone doesn’t want to hug you.
It is already time to slow down and feel how scared we are.
We are already afraid, we are already living in the time of fires.
When fear arises,
and it will,
let it wash over your whole body instead of staying
curled up tight in your shoulders.
If your heart tightens,
contract
and expand.
science says: compassion strengthens the immune system
We already know that, but capitalism gives us amnesia
and tricks us into thinking it’s the thing that protect us
but it’s the way we hold the thing.
The way we do the thing.
Those of us who have forgotten amuletic traditions,
we turn to hoarding hand sanitizer and masks.
we find someone to blame.
we think that will help.
want to blame something?
Blame capitalism. Blame patriarchy. Blame white supremacy.
It is already time to remember to hang garlic on our doors
to dip our handkerchiefs in thyme tea
to rub salt on our feet
to pray the rosary, kiss the mezuzah, cleanse with an egg.
In the middle of the night,
when you wake up with terror in your belly,
it is time to think about stardust and geological time
redwoods and dance parties and mushrooms
remediating toxic soil.
it is time
to care for one another
to pray over water
to wash away fear
every time we wash our hands
*******************

Lockdown
Yes there is fear.
Yes there is isolation.
Yes there is panic buying.
Yes there is sickness.
Yes there is even death.
But,
They say that in Wuhan after so many years of noise
You can hear the birds again.
They say that after just a few weeks of quiet
The sky is no longer thick with fumes
But blue and grey and clear.
They say that in the streets of Assisi
People are singing to each other
across the empty squares,
keeping their windows open
so that those who are alone
may hear the sounds of family around them.
They say that a hotel in the West of Ireland
Is offering free meals and delivery to the housebound.
Today a young woman I know
is busy spreading fliers with her number
through the neighbourhood
So that the elders may have someone to call on.
Today Churches, Synagogues, Mosques and Temples
are preparing to welcome
and shelter the homeless, the sick, the weary
All over the world people are slowing down and reflecting
All over the world people are looking at their neighbours in a new way
All over the world people are waking up to a new reality
To how big we really are.
To how little control we really have.
To what really matters.
To Love.
So we pray and we remember that
Yes there is fear.
But there does not have to be hate.
Yes there is isolation.
But there does not have to be loneliness.
Yes there is panic buying.
But there does not have to be meanness.
Yes there is sickness.
But there does not have to be disease of the soul
Yes there is even death.
But there can always be a rebirth of love.
Wake to the choices you make as to how to live now.
Today, breathe.
Listen, behind the factory noises of your panic
The birds are singing again
The sky is clearing,
Spring is coming,
And we are always encompassed by Love.
Open the windows of your soul
And though you may not be able
to touch across the empty square,
Sing.
from Richard Hendrick (Brother Richard) in Ireland
March 13th 2020
************

An Imagined Letter from Covid-19 to Humans – by Kristin Flyntz
Stop. Just stop.
It is no longer a request. It is a mandate.
We will help you.
We will bring the supersonic, high speed merry-go-round to a halt
We will stop
the planes
the trains
the schools
the malls
the meetings
the frenetic, furied rush of illusions and “obligations” that keep you from hearing our
single and shared beating heart,
the way we breathe together, in unison.
Our obligation is to each other,
As it has always been, even if, even though, you have forgotten.
We will interrupt this broadcast, the endless cacophonous broadcast of divisions and distractions,
to bring you this long-breaking news:
We are not well.
None of us; all of us are suffering.
Last year, the firestorms that scorched the lungs of the earth
did not give you pause.
Nor the typhoons in Africa, China, Japan.
Nor the fevered climates in Japan and India.
You have not been listening.
It is hard to listen when you are so busy all the time, hustling to uphold the comforts and conveniences that scaffold your lives.
But the foundation is giving way,
buckling under the weight of your needs and desires.
We will help you.
We will bring the firestorms to your body
We will bring the fever to your body
We will bring the burning, searing, and flooding to your lungs
that you might hear:
We are not well.
Despite what you might think or feel, we are not the enemy.
We are Messenger. We are Ally. We are a balancing force.
We are asking you:
To stop, to be still, to listen;
To move beyond your individual concerns and consider the concerns of all;
To be with your ignorance, to find your humility, to relinquish your thinking minds and travel deep into the mind of the heart;
To look up into the sky, streaked with fewer planes, and see it, to notice its condition: clear, smoky, smoggy, rainy? How much do you need it to be healthy so that you may also be healthy?
To look at a tree, and see it, to notice its condition: how does its health contribute to the health of the sky, to the air you need to be healthy?
To visit a river, and see it, to notice its condition: clear, clean, murky, polluted? How much do you need it to be healthy so that you may also be healthy? How does its health contribute to the health of the tree, who contributes to the health of the sky, so that you may also be healthy?
Many are afraid now.
Do not demonize your fear, and also, do not let it rule you. Instead, let it speak to you—in your stillness,
listen for its wisdom.
What might it be telling you about what is at work, at issue, at risk, beyond the threats of personal inconvenience and illness?
As the health of a tree, a river, the sky tells you about quality of your own health, what might the quality of your health tell you about the health of the rivers, the trees, the sky, and all of us who share this planet with you?
Stop.
Notice if you are resisting.
Notice what you are resisting.
Ask why.
Stop. Just stop.
Be still.
Listen.
Ask us what we might teach you about illness and healing, about what might be required so that all may be well.
We will help you, if you listen.