Have A Poem!

Those who have snow, and those who don’t-enjoy, anyway! This one is on a Substack I follow.

The Snowfall Is So Silent Miguel de Unamuno1864 –1936

translated by Robert Bly

The snowfall is so silent,
so slow,
bit by bit, with delicacy
it settles down on the earth
and covers over the fields.
The silent snow comes down
white and weightless;
Snowfall makes no noise,
falls as forgetting falls,
flake after flake.
It covers the fields gently
while frost attacks them
with its sudden flashes of white;
covers everything with its pure
and silent covering;
not one thing on the ground
anywhere it escapes.
And wherever it falls it stays,
content and gay,
for snow does not slip off
as it rains,
but it stays and sinks in.
The flakes are skyflowers,
pale lilies from the clouds,
that wither on earth.
They come down blossoming
but then so quickly
they are gone;
They bloom only on the peak,
above the mountains,
and make the earth feel heavier
when they die inside.
Snow, delicate snow,
that falls with such lightness
on the head,
on the feelings,
come and cover over the sadness
that lies always in my reason.

The snowfall is silent

The snowfall is silent,
slow thing;
little by little and gently
rests on the ground
and shelters the plain.
The snow lies silently
white and light;
the snowfall makes no noise;
falls as oblivion falls,
flake by flake.
Softly shelters the fields
when the ice harasses them;
with its flashes of whiteness;
covers everything with its cloak
pure, silent;
does not escape on the ground
anything.
Where it falls, there it stays
light and light,
because the snow does not slip
as the rain slides,
but it stays and sinks in.
Flowers from the sky the flakes,
white lilies of the clouds,
that wither on the ground,
They come down in bloom,
but they are soon
melted;
They bloom only at the summit,
over the mountains,
sorrow of the earth,
and in their entrails they perish.
Snow, soft snow,
the one that falls so lightly
over the head,
on the heart,
come and shelter my sadness
the one that rests in reason.

From Roots and Wings: Poetry from Spain 1900-1975 , translated by Robert Bly, edited by Hardie St. Martin, and published by Harper & Row. © 1976 by Hardie St. Martin. Used with permission. All rights reserved.

100%

I love reading. Life’s decent, too. 😉

What is a life well lived? ¿Qué es una vida bien vivida? – Abhijit Naskar

A Nice Old Poem

Find out all about it by clicking the title to see it all. (Also not proselytizing.)

January by Robert Bridges 1844 – 1930

Cold is the winter day, misty and dark:
The sunless sky with faded gleams is rent:
And patches of thin snow outlying, mark
The landscape with a drear disfigurement.

The trees their mournful branches lift aloft:
The oak with knotty twigs is full of trust,
With bud-thronged bough the cherry in the croft;
The chestnut holds her gluey knops upthrust.

No birds sing, but the starling chaps his bill
And chatters mockingly; the newborn lambs
Within their strawbuilt fold beneath the hill
Answer with plaintive cry their bleating dams.

Their voices melt in welcome dreams of spring,
Green grass and leafy trees and sunny skies:
My fancy decks the woods, the thrushes sing,
Meadows are gay, bees hum and scents arise.

And God the Maker doth my heart grow bold
To praise wintry works not understood,
Who all the worlds and ages doth behold,
Evil and good as one, and all as good.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on January 4, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.

Some Poetry on New Year’s Morning

It is about war. It is a beautiful piece of work about war. Click the title to get the background.

All I can see is nothing Sahar Muradi

^{If nothing that can be seen can either be God or represent Him to us as He is, then to find God we must pass beyond everything that can be seen and enter into darkness.
Since nothing that can be heard is God, to find Him we must enter into silence.
—Thomas Merton, from “New Seeds of Contemplation,” 1961}

^{I swear to God, mom, I am exhausted, but praise be to God in all circumstances.
—writing, translated from the Arabic, on the Al-Shifa Hospital walls, April 2024}

All I can see is nothing
Fields of

Hollow
The O that escapes

A pasture of
Mouths

An apartment building
Of locked jaws

The silent weeping
Of rocks

I hear nothing
In the bags of soft limbs sighing

Milk teeth
Sharpening a father’s heart

The cone hat on the small head
Singing to plumes

Iftar in the tents
Flapping pages off the moon

But Your name over and over
On the hospital walls

But Your name stilling
The fire that does not cease

But Your name everywhere
Everything all at once

I see nothing
From this distance

This deepest night
This longest darkness

Fumble at fajr
To loosen my gasps

I repeat Your name
Over and over

Then bow to Your wisdom
To the terror of Your liberation

O that I may not see anything
More

Copyright © 2024 by Sahar Muradi. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 31, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

Poetry for An Election

You know what to do to find out more.

Morning After The Election by Regie Cabico

I can’t control
the vanishing
of bees

but I can control
the honey I swallow
to soothe
the vocal cords

I can’t control boys
bully-tumbling
another boy

in the classroom
like they’re
in a mosh pit

but I can remember
rolling on hills
with boys being the bully

I can’t change my major
from drama to global peace

but I can write
similes of serenity

& poetic sermons
in temples
of matrimonial fanfare

I know the bombs, the explosives,
and Molotovs are overhead

and I can’t control
the lottery, the multiverses,
and tomorrow’s astrology

but whatever tarot card I pick
or whatever
gets thrown
at my face:

Hangman
or Fallen Towers

I can express
my weathering emotions

to sing while hoarse
to control air placement
to find the chakra

the right amount of air
to pass through my throat

oh sing with me
the octave between

blade & nectar
rubble & clouds
ash & mountain

Some Poetry for Tuesday

Flannel Sheets and Winter Solstice

Saturday Poetry

You know the drill; click the title to get more.

herederos de cero Sheila Maldonado

I’ve returned from the question the motherland
a continually illegitimate relationship
I’m a pretend immigrant afraid of coats and the cold
stunned by space and the sun up in the face
landlocked behind the barbed wire of mama’s house

what did I do there scratch twitch stare
wandered with a prima and her daughters
was asked about the prima      who should have been there
she left the world      after her mama mi tía se fue
nadie era nadie           en esa casa only the men

it made my mama sick to see me leave
into the hot night of her origins
I return for the right to walk in the dark
like the black cat family
that roamed our alley in the valley of Sula

if I woke up at a decent hour I caught the colibrí
little brown red god came around 9 10am
humming into a tree of little red stems
never know names
a place of teeny overlooked gods

I drank tea      at the white iron table
another tía gave mama      they got on so well
about their nests           in the capital of slurs
will I be the only bird to be about the tree
last one flitting           do we want me to be