Friday, April 18, 2014

Poems about Healing: Playlist for April 18, 2014

Winter Remembered

Winter Remembered

By  John Crowe Ransom 


Two evils, monstrous either one apart,

Possessed me, and were long and loath at going:  

A cry of Absence, Absence, in the heart,  

And in the wood the furious winter blowing.


Think not, when fire was bright upon my bricks,  

And past the tight boards hardly a wind could enter,  

I glowed like them, the simple burning sticks,  

Far from my cause, my proper heat and center.


Better to walk forth in the frozen air

And wash my wound in the snows; that would be healing;  

Because my heart would throb less painful there,  

Being caked with cold, and past the smart of feeling.


And where I walked, the murderous winter blast  

Would have this body bowed, these eyeballs streaming,  

And though I think this heart’s blood froze not fast  

It ran too small to spare one drop for dreaming.


Dear love, these fingers that had known your touch,  

And tied our separate forces first together,

Were ten poor idiot fingers not worth much,  

Ten frozen parsnips hanging in the weather.
Two evils, monstrous either one apart,
Possessed me, and were long and loath at going:   
A cry of Absence, Absence, in the heart,   
And in the wood the furious winter blowing.

Think not, when fire was bright upon my bricks,   
And past the tight boards hardly a wind could enter,   
I glowed like them, the simple burning sticks,   
Far from my cause, my proper heat and center.

Better to walk forth in the frozen air
And wash my wound in the snows; that would be healing;   
Because my heart would throb less painful there,   
Being caked with cold, and past the smart of feeling.

And where I walked, the murderous winter blast   
Would have this body bowed, these eyeballs streaming,   
And though I think this heart’s blood froze not fast   
It ran too small to spare one drop for dreaming.

Dear love, these fingers that had known your touch,   
And tied our separate forces first together,
Were ten poor idiot fingers not worth much,   
Ten frozen parsnips hanging in the weather.
                                                                   
REFLECTIVE MUSIC:       Suite for String Trio in A by Jean Sibelius

                     


  


Wildpeace

By  Yehuda Amichai  


Not the peace of a cease-fire,

not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,

but rather

as in the heart when the excitement is over

and you can talk only about a great weariness.

I know that I know how to kill,

that makes me an adult.

And my son plays with a toy gun that knows

how to open and close its eyes and say Mama.

A peace

without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,

without words, without

the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be

light, floating, like lazy white foam.

A little rest for the wounds—

who speaks of healing?

(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation

to the next, as in a relay race:

the baton never falls.)


Let it come

like wildflowers,

suddenly, because the field

must have it: wildpeace.

REFLECTIVE MUSIC: Appalachian Spring by Aaron Copland




Small Prayer
Small Prayer

By  Weldon Kees  


Change, move, dead clock, that this fresh day

May break with dazzling light to these sick eyes.

Burn, glare, old sun, so long unseen,

That time may find its sound again, and cleanse

Whatever it is that a wound remembers

After the healing ends.

REFLECTIVE MUSIC: Spiritual Song, Op. 30 by Johannes Brahms





The Peace of Wild Things

By  Wendell Berry  


When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

REFLECTIVE MUSIC: Piano Concerto in G (2nd movement) by Maurice Ravel




Faith Healing
By  Philip Larkin  


Slowly the women file to where he stands  

Upright in rimless glasses, silver hair,

Dark suit, white collar. Stewards tirelessly  

Persuade them onwards to his voice and hands,  

Within whose warm spring rain of loving care  

Each dwells some twenty seconds. Now, dear child,

What’s wrong, the deep American voice demands,  

And, scarcely pausing, goes into a prayer  

Directing God about this eye, that knee.  

Their heads are clasped abruptly; then, exiled


Like losing thoughts, they go in silence; some  

Sheepishly stray, not back into their lives

Just yet; but some stay stiff, twitching and loud  

With deep hoarse tears, as if a kind of dumb  

And idiot child within them still survives  

To re-awake at kindness, thinking a voice  

At last calls them alone, that hands have come  

To lift and lighten; and such joy arrives

Their thick tongues blort, their eyes squeeze grief, a crowd  

Of huge unheard answers jam and rejoice—


What’s wrong! Moustached in flowered frocks they shake:  

By now, all’s wrong. In everyone there sleeps  

A sense of life lived according to love.

To some it means the difference they could make  

By loving others, but across most it sweeps

As all they might have done had they been loved.  

That nothing cures. An immense slackening ache,  

As when, thawing, the rigid landscape weeps,

Spreads slowly through them—that, and the voice above  

Saying Dear child, and all time has disproved.

REFLECTIVE MUSIC: Here yet awhile by J.S. Bach





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