poems.yml

- key: the-lake-isle-of-inisfree
  title: The Lake Isle of Inisfree
  author: William Butler Yeats
  poem: |
    I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
    And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
    Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
    And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

    And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
    Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
    There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
    And evening full of the linnet's wings.

    I will arise and go now, for always night and day
    I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
    While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
    I hear it in the deep heart's core.

- key: song-to-celia
  title: 'Song: to Celia ["Drink to me only with thine eyes"]'
  author: Ben Jonson
  poem: |
    Drink to me only with thine eyes,
      And I will pledge with mine;
    Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
      And I'll not look for wine.
    The thirst that from the soul doth rise
      Doth ask a drink divine;
    But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
      I would not change for thine.

    I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
      Not so much honouring thee
    As giving it a hope, that there
      It could not withered be.
    But thou thereon didst only breathe,
      And sent'st it back to me;
    Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
      Not of itself, but thee.

- key: she-sweeps-with-many-colored-brooms
  title: She sweeps with many-colored brooms
  author: Emily Dickinson
  poem: |
    She sweeps with many-colored brooms,
    And leaves the shreds behind;
    Oh, housewife in the evening west,
    Come back, and dust the pond!

    You dropped a purple ravelling in,
    You dropped an amber thread;
    And now you've littered all the East
    With duds of emerald!

    And still she plies her spotted brooms,
    And still the aprons fly,
    Till brooms fade softly into stars —
    And then I come away.

- key: for-one-who-is-exhausted
  title: For One Who Is Exhausted
  author: John O'Donohue
  poem: |
    When the rhythm of the heart becomes hectic,
    Time takes on the strain until it breaks;
    Then all the unattended stress falls in
    On the mind like an endless, increasing weight.

    The light in the mind becomes dim.
    Things you could take in your stride before
    Now become laborsome events of will.

    Weariness invades your spirit.
    Gravity begins falling inside you,
    Dragging down every bone.

    The tide you never valued has gone out.
    And you are marooned on unsure ground.
    Something within you has closed down;
    And you cannot push yourself back to life.

    You have been forced to enter empty time.
    The desire that drove you has relinquished.
    There is nothing else to do now but rest
    And patiently learn to receive the self
    You have forsaken in the race of days.

    At first your thinking will darken
    And sadness take over like listless weather.
    The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.

    You have traveled too fast over false ground;
    Now your soul has come to take you back.

    Take refuge in your senses, open up
    To all the small miracles you rushed through.

    Become inclined to watch the way of rain
    When it falls slow and free.

    Imitate the habit of twilight,
    Taking time to open the well of color
    That fostered the brightness of day.

    Draw alongside the silence of stone
    Until its calmness can claim you.
    Be excessively gentle with yourself.

    Stay clear of those vexed in spirit.
    Learn to linger around someone of ease
    Who feels they have all the time in the world.

    Gradually, you will return to yourself,
    Having learned a new respect for your heart
    And the joy that dwells far within slow time.`

- key: beannacht
  title: Beannacht
  author: John O'Donohue
  poem: |
    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.

- key: sonnet-54
  title: Sonnet 54
  author: William Shakespeare
  poem: |
    O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
    By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
    The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
    For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
    The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
    As the perfumèd tincture of the roses,
    Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
    When summer's breath their maskèd buds discloses;
    But, for their virtue only is their show,
    They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
    Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
    Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.
    And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
    When that shall fade, by verse distils your truth.

- key: song-of-the-rose
  title: Song of the Rose
  author: Sappho (via Achilles Tatius, Elizabeth Barrett Browning
  poem: |
    If Zeus chose us a King of the flowers in his mirth,
    He would call to the rose and would royally crown it,
    For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth,
    Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it.
    For the rose, ho, the rose! is the eye of the flowers,
    Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair,--
    Is the lightning of beauty, that strikes through the bowers
    On pale lovers who sit in the glow unaware.
    Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the rose, lifts the cup
    To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest!
    Ho, the rose, having curled its sweet leaves for the world,
    Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up,
    As they laugh to the Wind as it laughs from the west.

- key: kubla-khan
  title: Kubla Khan
  author: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
  poem: |
    In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
       Down to a sunless sea.
    So twice five miles of fertile ground
    With walls and towers were girdled round;
    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
    Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

    But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
    A savage place! as holy and enchanted
    As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
    A mighty fountain momently was forced:
    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
    And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
    It flung up momently the sacred river.
    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
    Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
    And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
    Ancestral voices prophesying war!
       The shadow of the dome of pleasure
       Floated midway on the waves;
       Where was heard the mingled measure
       From the fountain and the caves.
    It was a miracle of rare device,
    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

       A damsel with a dulcimer
       In a vision once I saw:
       It was an Abyssinian maid
       And on her dulcimer she played,
       Singing of Mount Abora.
       Could I revive within me
       Her symphony and song,
       To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
    That with music loud and long,
    I would build that dome in air,
    That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
    And all who heard should see them there,
    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
    Weave a circle round him thrice,
    And close your eyes with holy dread
    For he on honey-dew hath fed,
    And drunk the milk of Paradise.

- key: abou-ben-adhem
  title: Abou Ben Adhem
  author: Leigh Hunt
  poem: |
    Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
    Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
    And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
    Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
    An angel writing in a book of gold:—
    Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
    And to the presence in the room he said,
    "What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
    And with a look made of all sweet accord,
    Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
    "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
    Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
    But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
    Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

    The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
    It came again with a great wakening light,
    And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
    And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

- key: advice-for-pallbearers
  title: Advice for Pallbearers
  author: Benjamin Gucciardi
  poem: |
    To make the sound
    of your footsteps disappear

    requires practice
    a cornfield in late autumn

    when the ground is brittle enough
    to repeat what it hears.

    Best if the six of you can go together
    at dusk, find a barn-owl.

    A corn-crow will do.
    See how close you can get before

    the bird startles, observe
    the interaction of air and wing.

    Before you handle the casket
    borrow your mother's finest crystal

    vase, carry it through the crowded parking lot
    to the water park, ride the slides.

    Let nothing shatter.
    The trick is for the coffin to appear

    to float, the weight of his failures
    superfluous; we all want to be known.

    as saints for a few moments
    before we are forgotten.

- key: lute-my-companion-in-calamity
  title: Lute, my companion in calamity
  author: Louise Labé
  poem: |
    Lute, my companion in calamity
    Irreproachable witness of my sighs
    Faithful accountant of all my cries,
    How frequently you have grieved with me:

    By my piteous tears you’ve been so assailed
    That should some sweet new sound be meant,
    You quickly turn it back into a lament,
    Toning the major into minor scale

    And if I want you to sing a different tune,
    You come unstrung & strike me dumb:
    But seeing all the tender sighs I expend,

    You favor me in my sad complaint:
    To pleasure in pain am I thus constrained,
    Hoping a grief this sweet might sweetly end

- key: oops-i-did-it-again
  title: Oops, I did it again
  author: Britney Spears
  poem: |
    Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
    Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

    I think I did it again
    I made you believe we're more than just friends
    Oh baby
    It might seem like a crush
    But it doesn't mean that I'm serious
    'Cause to lose all my senses
    That is just so typically me

    Oh baby, baby
    Oops, I did it again
    I played with your heart, got lost in the game
    Oh baby, baby
    Oops, you think I'm in love
    That I'm sent from above
    I'm not that innocent

    You see my problem is this
    I'm dreaming away
    Wishing that heroes, they truly exist
    I cry, watching the days
    Can't you see I'm a fool in so many ways
    But to lose all my senses
    That is just so typically me

    Oh baby, oh
    Oops, I did it again
    I played with your heart, got lost in the game
    Oh baby, baby
    Oops, you think I'm in love
    That I'm sent from above
    I'm not that innocent

    Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
    Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

    Oops, I did it again to your heart
    Got lost in this game, oh baby
    Oops, you think that I'm sent from above
    I'm not that innocent
    Oops, I did it again
    I played with your heart, got lost in the game
    Oh baby, baby
    Oops, you think I'm in love
    That I'm sent from above
    I'm not that innocent

    Oops, I did it again
    I played with your heart, got lost in the game
    Oh baby, baby
    Oops, you think I'm in love
    That I'm sent from above
    I'm not that innocent

- key: the-guesthouse-helminski
  title: The Guesthouse
  author: Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi (tr. Kabir Helminski)
  poem: |
    Darling, the body is a guest house;
    every morning someone new arrives.
    Don't say, “O, another weight around my neck!”
    or your guest will fly back to nothingness.
    Whatever enters your heart is a guest
    from the invisible world: entertain it well.

    Every day, and every moment, a thought comes
    like an honored guest into your heart.
    My soul, regard each thought as a person,
    for every person's value is in the thought they hold.

    If a sorrowful thought stands in the way,
    it is also preparing the way for joy.
    It furiously sweeps your house clean,
    in order that some new joy may appear from the Source.
    It scatters the withered leaves from the bough of the heart,
    in order that fresh green leaves might grow.
    It uproots the old joy so that
    a new joy may enter from Beyond.

    Sorrow pulls up the rotten root
    that was veiled from sight.
    Whatever sorrow takes away or causes the heart to shed,
    it puts something better in its place-
    especially for one who is certain
    that sorrow is the servant of the intuitive.

    Without the frown of clouds and lightning,
    the vines would be burned by the smiling sun.
    Both good and bad luck become guests in your heart:
    like planets traveling from sign to sign.
    When something transits your sign, adapt yourself,
    and be as harmonious as its ruling sign,
    so that when it rejoins the Moon,
    it will speak kindly to the Lord of the heart.

    Whenever sorrow comes again,
    meet it with smiles and laughter,
    saying, “O my Creator, save me from its harm,
    and do not deprive me of its good.
    Lord, remind me to be thankful,
    let me feel no regret if its benefit passes away.”

    And if the pearl is not in sorrow's hand,
    let it go and still be pleased.
    Increase your sweet practice.
    Your practice will benefit you at another time;
    someday your need will be suddenly fulfilled.


- key: sentenced-to-life
  title: Sentenced to Life
  author: Clive James
  poem: |
    Sentenced to life, I sleep face-up as though
    Ice-bound, lest I should cough the night away,
    And when I walk the mile to town, I show
    The right technique for wading through deep clay.
    A sad man, sorrier than he can say.

    But surely not so guilty he should die
    Each day from knowing that his race is run:
    My sin was to be faithless. I would lie
    As if I could be true to everyone
    At once, and all the damage that was done

    Was in the name of love, or so I thought.
    I might have met my death believing this,
    But no, there was a lesson to be taught.
    Now, not just old, but ill, with much amiss,
    I see things with a whole new emphasis.

    My daughter's garden has a goldfish pool
    With six fish, each a little finger long.
    I stand and watch them following their rule
    Of never touching, never going wrong:
    Trajectories as perfect as plain song.

    Once, I would not have noticed; nor have known
    The name for Japanese anemones,
    So pale, so frail. But now I catch the tone
    Of leaves. No birds can touch down in the trees
    Without my seeing them. I count the bees.

    Even my memories are clearly seen:
    Whence comes the answer if I'm told I must
    Be aching for my homeland. Had I been
    Dulled in the brain to match my lungs of dust
    There'd be no recollection I could trust.

    Yet I, despite my guilt, despite my grief,
    Watch the Pacific sunset, heaven sent,
    In glowing colours and in sharp relief,
    Painting the white clouds when the day is spent,
    As if it were my will and testament —

    As if my first impressions were my last,
    And time had only made them more defined,
    Now I am weak. The sky is overcast
    Here in the English autumn, but my mind
    Basks in the light I never left behind.
 
- key: blessing-the-boats
  title: Blessing the Boats
  author: Lucille Clifton
  poem: |
    may the tide
    that is entering even now
    the lip of our understanding
    carry you out
    beyond the face of fear
    may you kiss
    the wind then turn from it
    certain that it will
    love your back     may you
    open your eyes to water
    water waving forever
    and may you in your innocence
    sail through this to that