Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Beginnings

               

Egg

White Hen And Chickens by Joseph Crawhall III 

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“Since when," he asked, "Are the first line and last line of any poem where the poem begins and ends?”  ― Seamus Heaney

                                                          

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” 

― Lao Tzu                    

#1619 

Not knowing when the Dawn will come,

I open every Door,

Or has it Feathers, like a Bird,

Or Billows, like a Shore—

― Emily Dickinson

Beautiful World - In The Beginning

Midweek Motif ~ Beginnings

The question of "how to begin" has generated books upon books in every game and every field, and the answers are still not exhausted.  Yet things begin, and often before the visible and public (or private) beginning.  Consider how a flower opens.  Would you count its beginning in the bud?  in the seed?  in the idea of  a flower?  

Your Challenge: In your new poem, trace a thing, event, or action back to its true or imagined beginnings.

Casting on

The Tyger BY WILLIAM BLAKE

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies. 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 

On what wings dare he aspire? 

What the hand, dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder, & what art, 

Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 

And when thy heart began to beat, 

What dread hand? & what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain, 

In what furnace was thy brain? 

What the anvil? what dread grasp, 

Dare its deadly terrors clasp! 

When the stars threw down their spears 

And water'd heaven with their tears: 

Did he smile his work to see? 

Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

Tyger Tyger burning bright, 

In the forests of the night: 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

excerpt  from Elegy in Joy  By Muriel Rukeyser

We tell beginnings: for the flesh and the answer,
or the look, the lake in the eye that knows,
for the despair that flows down in widest rivers,
cloud of home; and also the green tree of grace,
all in the leaf, in the love that gives us ourselves.

The word of nourishment passes through the women,
soldiers and orchards rooted in constellations,
white towers, eyes of children: 
saying in time of war What shall we feed?
I cannot say the end.

Nourish beginnings, let us nourish beginnings.
Not all things are blest, but the
seeds of all things are blest.
The blessing is in the seed.

This moment, this seed, this wave of the sea, this look, this instant of love.
Years over wars and an imagining of peace.  Or the expiation journey
toward peace which is many wishes flaming together,
fierce pure life, the many-living home.
Love that gives us ourselves, in the world known to all
new techniques for the healing of the wound,
and the unknown world.  One life, or the faring stars.

Start Close In

by David Whyte

Start close in,
don’t take the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step
you don’t want to take.




. . . . 
(Read the rest HERE.)























source






"Large streams from little fountains flow, 

Tall oaks from little acorns grow."





(D. Everett in The Columbian Orator, 1797)





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Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—




(Next week Sumana’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Vision.)

I Wish I'd Written This

The House of Belonging

By David Whyte

I awoke

this morning

in the gold light

turning this way

and that

thinking for

a moment

it was one

day

like any other.

But

the veil had gone

from my

darkened heart

and

I thought

it must have been the quiet

candlelight

that filled my room,

it must have been

the first

easy rhythm

with which I breathed

myself to sleep,

it must have been

the prayer I said

speaking to the otherness

of the night.

And

I thought

this is the good day

you could

meet your love,

this is the black day

someone close

to you could die.

This is the day

you realize

how easily the thread

is broken

between this world

and the next

and I found myself

sitting up

in the quiet pathway

of light,

the tawny

close grained cedar

burning round

me like fire

and all the angels of this housely

heaven ascending

through the first

roof of light

the sun has made.

This is the bright home

in which I live,

this is where

I ask

my friends

to come,

this is where I want

to love all the things

it has taken me so long

to learn to love.

This is the temple

of my adult aloneness

and I belong

to that aloneness

as I belong to my life.

There is no house

like the house of belonging.

Title poem from the book of the same name, published 1997. Printed with permission from Many Rivers Press, www.davidwhyte.com 
© Many Rivers Press, Langley, Washington, USA.

David Whyte, an English poet living in the United States with dual citizenship, is also interested in philosophy and theology, in bringing poetry to wider audiences, and in exploring the role of creativity in business. Since 1986-7 he has devoted his life to these preoccupations via lecture tours, workshops, and his organisation Invitas: the Institute for conversational leadership. Conversational leadership is the subject of some of his (prose) books. Wikipedia tells us he has written four books of prose and seven volumes of poetry. 

It also tells us that, as a younger man, he studied Marine Zoology and in his twenties lived for a time in the Galapagos Islands. His work as a naturalist has included leading some anthropological and natural history expeditions in the Andes, the Amazon and the Himalayas.

You can find out more about him and his work at his own website, where you can also buy his books. In addition he has a comprehensive Amazon page which includes audio CDs. Besides the poetry, I am particularly intrigued by a book called  Consolations: the Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words. (What poet isn't fascinated by words?) I had a peek with the 'Look inside' option at Amazon, and found myself at the word Alone, nicely synchronous with the poem I've chosen for you, and was hooked at the first paragraph – beautiful writing marrying the sound and sense of the word. 

I don't often like poems with very short lines. Too often they merely fragment the syntax, but in this one the meaning flows beautifully, enhanced by the line breaks (after the first two verses eased me into the way to read it).

What the poem says is arresting, an unusual viewpoint. As someone who is finally experiencing adult aloneness and in many ways liking it, I find it affirming.

You can hear him on YouTube reciting poems, delivering lectures and being interviewed – including this little dissertation on Belonging, which is interesting in conjunction with this poem.

Some of his poems – not this one! – seem to me a bit preachy, but always redeemed by their profundity of thought, and their music. As in this poem, he is also wonderful at conjuring up vivid images.

His facebook author page has many examples of his writings, both poetry and prose, and you can even discuss them with him or read discussions he has had with other people.

Poems and photos used in ‘I Wish I’d Written This’ remain the property of the copyright holders (usually their authors).