Three poems by Langston Hughes

Dream Variations

To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, 

To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. 

Then rest at cool evening Beneath a tall tree

 While night comes on gently,

 Dark like me— That is my dream!

 To fling my arms wide

 In the face of the sun, Dance! 

Whirl! Whirl!

 Till the quick day is done. 

Rest at pale evening . . . 

A tall, slim tree . . .

 Night coming tenderly

Life is Fine 

I went down to the river, 

I set down on the bank.

 I tried to think but couldn't, 

So I jumped in and sank.

 I came up once and hollered!

 I came up twice and cried!

 If that water hadn't a-been so cold I might've sunk and died.

 But it was Cold in that water!

 It was cold!

 I took the elevator 

Sixteen floors above the ground.

 I thought about my baby

 And thought I would jump down.

 I stood there and I hollered!

 I stood there and I cried! If it hadn't a-been so high

 I might've jumped and died.

 But it was High up there! It was high! 

 So since I'm still here livin', 

I guess I will live on. 

I could've died for love— But for livin' I was born 

Though you may hear me holler, 

And you may see me cry—

 I'll be dogged, sweet baby,

 If you gonna see me die.

 Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!

The Grass

The grass so little has to do, --
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine, --
A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass
In odors so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep,
Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And dream the days away, --
The grass so little has to do,
I wish I were the hay!

Emily Dickinson 

Splittings

1.

My body opens over San Francisco like the day –

light raining down      each pore crying the change of light

I am not with her     I have been waking off and on

all night to that pain     not simply absence but

the presence of the past      destructive

to living here and now      Yet if I could instruct

myself, if we could learn to learn from pain

even as it grasps us      if the mind, the mind that lives

in this body could refuse      to let itself be crushed

in that grasp     it would loosen      Pain would have to stand

off from me and listen     its dark breath still on me

but the mind could begin to speak to pain

and pain would have to answer:

We are older now

we have met before     these are my hands before your eyes

my figure blotting out      all that is not mine

I am the pain of division      creator of divisions

it is I who blot your lover from you

and not the time-zones or the miles

It is not separation calls me forth      but I

who am separation      And remember

I have no existence      apart from you

2.

I believe I am choosing something now

not to suffer uselessly     yet still to feel

Does the infant memorize the body of the mother

and create her in absence?     or simply cry

primordial loneliness?      does the bed of the stream

once diverted      mourning       remember the wetness?

But we, we live so much in these

configurations of the past      I choose

to separate her     from my past we have not shared

I choose not to suffer uselessly

to detect primordial pain as it stalks toward me

flashing its bleak torch in my eyes     blotting out

her particular being     the details of her love

I will not be divided      from her or from myself

by myths of separation

while her mind and body in Manhattan are more with me

than the smell of eucalyptus coolly burning      on these hills

3.

The world tells me I am its creature

I am raked by eyes     brushed by hands

I want to crawl into her for refuge     lay my head

in the space     between her breast and shoulder

abnegating power for love

as women have done      or hiding

from power in her love     like a man

I refuse these givens      the splitting

between love and action      I am choosing

not to suffer uselessly      and not to use her

I choose to love      this time      for once

with all my intelligence.

- Adrienne Rich
Dream of a Common Language

Sam's Happiness Philosophy

How do you deal with a heartache?
How do you keep a positive attitude when you feel defeated?

I've been sad... I am giving myself time and dealing with it the best I can...
I am reading and researching on ways to deal with the array of emotions that comes with disappointment.

I am a faithful and spiritual person and believe everything happens for a reason but still... I am hurt.

I first I thought that maybe if I was less optimistic and had lower expectations I would be less prone to heartaches...

But how sad would life be if you live expecting the worst?

What I've found and feel is that being optimistic is actually what makes life better. The anticipation makes me happy!  I dream, I plan, I expect more... ALWAYS!!  More kisses and more sunny days.

Optimism is imprinted on my DNA. It changes my reality and it makes me work harder.
I  am choosing to live out loud!!! Heartaches... well I will learn to deal with them.  Practice makes perfect!!!


I am sharing this video I found on  ted.com that will actually demonstrate what I am talking about...  Watch and learn! Joy to all!

Sam Berns is a Junior at Foxboro High School in Foxboro, Massachusetts, where he has achieved highest honors and is currently a percussion section leader in the high school marching band. He recently achieved the rank of Eagle Scout in the Boy Scouts of America. Sam was diagnosed with Progeria, a rare, rapid aging disease, at the age of 2. He is featured in the documentary Life According to Sam, which will premiere on HBO on October 21, 2013.

The Mothering Blackness

She came home running

back to the mothering blackness
deep in the smothering blackness
white tears icicle gold plains of her face
She came home running

She came down creeping
here to the black arms waiting
now to the warm heart waiting
rime of alien dreams befrosts her rich brown face
She came down creeping

 She came home blameless

 black yet as Hagar’s daughter

 tall as was Sheba’s daughter

 threats of northern winds die on the desert’s face 

 She came home blameless

Maya Angelou

Source: The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou (Random House Inc., 1994)

Image Source: Unknown

National Poetry Month

April was chosen in 1996 to become the National poetry month. 

"The concept is to widen the attention of individuals and the media—to the art of poetry, to living poets, to our complex poetic heritage, and to poetry books and journals of wide aesthetic range and concern. We hope to increase the visibility and availability of poetry in popular culture while acknowledging and celebrating poetry’s ability to sustain itself in the many places where it is practiced and appreciated." Poets.org

The website poets.org suggests 30 ways to celebrate and make time for poetry. 

I've always loved poetry and I will be celebrating by sharing a poem every Wednesday.

Here is goes: 

“If You Forget Me,”  by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda is one of my favorite poets. He was crowned by  Gabriel Garcia Marquez as “the greatest poet of the 20th  Century in any language.”

(image source: www.poets.org)