David Whyte's Sometimes week of Jan 23 '06

Sometimes
if you move carefully
through the forest

breathing
like the ones
in the old stories

who could cross
a shimmering bed of dry leaves
without a sound.

you come
to a place
whose only task

is to trouble you
with tiny
but frightening requests

conceived out of nowhere
but in this place
beginning to lead everywhere.

Request to stop what
you are doing right now,
and

to stop what you
are becoming
while you do it,

questions
that can make
or unmake
a life,

questions
that have patiently
waited for you,

questions
that have no right
to go away.


©2003 by David Whyte
from Everything is Waiting for You
published by Many Rivers Press

Lea Goldberg poem, week of Jan 16 '06

Lea Goldberg (1911–1970), Israeli poet. Translation by Rachel Tzvia Black

Toward Myself

The years have made up my face
with memories of love
and have adorned my hair with light silver threads
making me most beautiful.

In my eyes
landscapes are reflected.
And the paths I have trod
have strengthened my stride-
tired and lovely steps.

If you should see me now
you would not recognize your yesterdays-
I am walking toward myself
bearing the face you searched for in vain
when I was walking toward you.

(From, "Selected Poetry and Drama," Toby Press, 2005, translated by Rachel
Tzvia Black and prose by T. Carmi)

Inside Tales

Emily's job was to think.
She was the only one of us
who had that to do,
said Emily's
sister,
Lavinia,
on telling
her family's
inside
tales.

Whereas
in my family,
I took on the job
of think
er a
nd everyone else -
Mother
Father
Sister
Brother -
thought too,
think
ing was not
an act
that any one
of us
pronounced
useable.
It just was -
under
neath the bad
air,
fights
and scruffy furniture -
a way of liv
ing
with
the ag
o
ny
of
sel
f.

-Esther Altshul Helfgott


OR

Inside Tales

Emily's job was to think.
She was the only one of us
who had that to do,said Emily's
sister,
Lavinia,
on telling
her family's
inside
tales.

Whereas
in my family,
I took on the job
of thinker
and everyone else -
Mother
Father
Sister
Brother -
thought too,
thinking was not
an act
that any one of us
pronounced useable.
It just was -
underneath
the bad air,
fights
and scruffy furniture -
a way of living
with the agony
of self.

*******
No, I like the first one ...

Esther’s Classes, Trigger poem by Cathy Song, Week of Jan. 9, '06

A Poet in the House

by
Cathy Song

Emily’s job was to think.
She was the only one of us
who had that to do. - Lavinia Dickinson

Seemingly small her work,
minute to the point of invisibility –
she vanished daily into paper, famished,
hungry for her next encounter –
but she opened with a string of humble
words necessity,
necessary as the humble work
of bringing well to water, roast to knife, cake to frost,
the course, loud, grunting labor of the rest of us
who complained not at all
for the noises she heard
we deemed divine, if
claustrophobic and esoteric –
and contented ourselves to the apparent,
the menial, set our heads
to the task of daily maintenance,
the simple order at the kitchen table,
while she struggled with a different thing –
the pressure seized upon her mind –
we could ourselves not bear such strain
and, in gratitude, heaved the bucket,
squeezed the rag, breathed the sweet,
homely odor of soap.
Lifting dirt from the floor
I swear
we could hear her thinking.

Cathy Song, in Sweeping Beauty: contemporary women poets do housework, ed by Pamela Gemin, Univ of Iowa Prss, 2005

If anyone can figure out why the poet wrote the following lines in just so fashion, please let me know:

but she opened with a string of humble
words necessity,
necessary as the humble work

Don’t forget: CLL’s Women Writers Reading Series begins Jan. 18th at Ravenna 3rd Place Books, 6 pm. Sign up with Esther