Poems for Life

by The Nightingale-Bamford School

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

  Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.

  Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!

  Only, from the long line of spray

  Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,

  Listen! You hear the grating roar

  Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,

  At their return, up the high strand,

  Begin, and cease, and then again begin,

  With tremulous cadence slow, and bring

  The eternal note of sadness in.

  Sophocles long ago

  Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought

  Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow

  Of human misery; we

  Find also in the sound a thought,

  Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

  The Sea of Faith

  Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore

  Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.

  But now I only hear

  Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

  Retreating, to the breath

  Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

  And naked shingles of the world.

  Ah, love, let us be true

  To one another! for the world, which seems

  To lie before us like a land of dreams,

  So various, so beautiful, so new,

  Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

  Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

  And we are here as on a darkling plain

  Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

  Where ignorant armies clash by night.

  — Matthew Arnold

  ISMAIL MERCHANT

  Dear Ms. Boulanger,

  Further to your letter dated March 1st regarding the book of poems which your class is compiling, I am pleased to enclose the following poem by Faiz Ahmed Faiz which Ismail Merchant has asked that I forward to you:

  SONG

  Pain will cease, do not grieve, do not grieve —

  Friends will return, the heart will rest, do not grieve, do not grieve —

  The wound will be made whole, do not grieve, do not grieve —

  Day will come forth, do not grieve, do not grieve —

  The cloud will open, night will decline, do not grieve, do not grieve —

  The seasons will change, do not grieve, do not grieve.

  Ismail Merchant asked me to tell you: “This poem expresses the philosophy of my life. There is always a dawn that we can look forward to.”

  Sincerely,

  Melissa Chung

  RUTH W. MESSINGER

  Dear Ali:

  I am honored by your invitation to help you in raising funds for the International Rescue Committee, and delighted by your request for a favorite poem.

  Notice that I referred to “a” favorite; that’s because I believe one can no more have a single favorite poem than your teachers can have a single favorite student. I love different poems for different reasons, in the same way that your teachers love you.

  I’m sending you a copy of Robert Frost’s “The Gift Outright” because it contains the elements I like best in Frost’s poetry: his use of clean, simple language and commonplace imagery to evoke powerful and complex ideas and emotions. Also, it describes some of the tensions that are part of our roles as Americans and our struggle for democracy.

  My best wishes go to you and your classmates on this ambitious and imaginative publishing venture.

  Sincerely,

  THE GIFT OUTRIGHT

  The land was ours before we were the land’s.

  She was our land more than a hundred years

  Before we were her people. She was ours

  In Massachusetts, in Virginia,

  But we were England’s, still colonials,

  Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,

  Possessed by what we now no more possessed.

  Something we were withholding made us weak

  Until we found out that it was ourselves

  We were withholding from our land of living,

  And forthwith found salvation in surrender.

  Such as we were we gave ourselves outright

  (The deed of gift was many deeds of war)

  To the land vaguely realizing westward,

  But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,

  Such as she was, such as she would become.

  — Robert Frost

  SUSAN MINOT

  Dear Lauren Friedman,

  I have too many favorite poems! But since this is for a good cause I will choose one. This sonnet by Mr. Keats has many things in it: fear, desire, ambition, poetic urges, love, despair and much more. Keats was as pure a poet as there was. When I read his words I feel the dead leaves inside me being stirred up; this is what good poetry does.

  With hopes for your successs--

  Yours,

  Susan Minot

  WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY CEASE TO BE

  When I have fears that I may cease to be

  Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,

  Before high-piled books, in charactry,

  Hold like rich garners the full-ripen’d grain;

  When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,

  Huge cloudy symbols of romance,

  And think that I may never live to trace

  Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

  And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

  That I shall never look upon thee more,

  Never have relish in the faery power

  Of unreflecting love; — then on the shore

  Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

  Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

  —John Keats

  JOYCE CAROL OATES

  Onlario Review

  Dear Gena Hamshaw:

  I choose this poem because it is succinct, brilliant, and profound in its wisdom.

  Tell all the Truth but tell it slant--

  Success in Circuit lies--

  Too bright for our infirm Delight

  The Truth’s superb surprise

  As Lightning to the Children eased

  With explanation kind

  The Truth must dazzle gradually

  Or every man be blind--

  Emily Dickinson

  Good luck with your project!

  Sincerely,

  RON PADGETT

  Dear Laura,

  Thank you for your letter about the project to raise money for the International Rescue Committee. I think it’s great that you’re helping with it, and I’m glad you invited me to choose a favorite poem for the anthology.

  Actually, there are a lot of poems that could qualify as my favorite, depending on how I’m feeling at the moment. But I’ve picked Frank O’Hara’s “A Step Away from Them,” a poem that I’ve loved ever since I first read it more than thirty years ago. I like the way the poem uses everyday talk to describe a real guy out walking around looking at things on his lunch hour. This is probably the first time a cheeseburger got into a poem! I also like the way the poem is both light and serious at the same time. It all makes me feel happy, as though I had been lucky enough to get to walk around with the poet.

  With best wishes,

  A STEP AWAY FROM THEM

  It’s my lunch hour, so I go

  for a walk among the hum-colored

  cabs. First, down the sidewalk

  where laborers feed their dirty

  glistening torsos sandwiches

  and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets

  on. They protect them from falling

  bricks, I guess. Then onto the

  avenue where skirts are flipping

  above heels and blow up over

  grates. The sun is hot, but the

  cabs stir up the air. I look

  at bargains in wristwatches. There

  are c
ats playing in sawdust.

  On

  to Times Square, where the sign

  blows smoke over my head, and higher

  the waterfall pours lightly. A

  Negro stands in a doorway with a

  toothpick, languorously agitating.

  A blonde chorus girl clicks: he

  smiles and rubs his chin. Everything

  suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of

  a Thursday.

  Neon in daylight is a

  great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would

  write, as are light bulbs in daylight.

  I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET’S

  CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of

  Federico Fellini, è bell’ attrice.

  And chocolate malted. A lady in

  foxes on such a day puts her poodle

  in a cab.

  There are several Puerto

  Ricans on the avenue today, which

  makes it beautiful and warm. First

  Bunny died, then John Latouche,

  then Jackson Pollock. But is the

  earth as full as life was full, of them?

  And one has eaten and one walks,

  past the magazines with nudes

  and the posters for BULLFIGHT and

  the Manhattan Storage Warehouse,

  which they’ll soon tear down. I

  used to think they had the Armory

  Show there.

  A glass of papaya juice

  and back to work. My heart is in my

  pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.

  — Frank O’Hara

  HAROLD PRINCE

  Dear Maggie Steele:

  This is a poem written by Thomas Wolfe for his posthumously published novel You Can’t Go Home Again.

  EXCERPT FROM “CREDO”

  Something has spoken to me in the night,

  burning the tapers of the waning year;

  something has spoken in the night,

  and told me I shall die, I know not where.

  Saying:

  “To lose the earth you know, for greater

  knowing; to lose the life you have, for

  greater life; to leave the friends you loved,

  for greater loving; to find a land more kind

  than home, more large than earth —

  “— Whereon the pillars of this earth are

  founded, toward which the conscience of the

  world is tending — a wind is rising, and the

  rivers flow.”

  Best wishes to you and your publication.

  Sincerely,

  ANNA QUINDLEN

  Dear Zoe,

  When I first received your letter, I wondered if trying to choose a favorite poem, even a favorite poet, was not a little like choosing your favorite child. Poetry has stoked my soul on so many occasions, over so many years, that the assignment seems impossible. And my answer may be dependent on the seasons or my mood. On certain days I swear by the black visions of Dylan Thomas, on others the quiet sensibility of Emily Dickinson. I’ve learned so much from Robert Lowell and Howard Nemerov, and I never cease to marvel at John Donne and Ezra Pound. In fact, one of my favorite ways to pass an afternoon is paging through a thick two-volume set I’ve owned for years called Chief Modern Poets of Britain and America. It’s filled with marginalia and comments.

  Looking over it, I come reluctantly to a favorite. The poetry of W. B. Yeats is so filled with quiet passion, not only in the emotional content but in the choice of language in his poems, that I come back to his work over and over again. And my favorite is the poem I used to dedicate my last book to my three children. It seems to me the perfect expression of our wish to give to our loved ones all that is in our hearts and minds:

  HE WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN

  Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

  Enwrought with golden and silver light,

  The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

  Of night and light and the half-light,

  I would spread the cloths under your feet:

  But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

  I have spread my dreams under your feet;

  Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

  Say this one aloud. It is magic, pure music in the way it lifts, falls, and illuminates.

  My very best,

  DAVID READ

  Dear Molly,

  I like your idea of the book of poems. If it’s not too late I would like to contribute one of my favorites. It’s John Donne’s sonnet beginning, “Batter my heart, three-personed God.” I love its powerful expression of God’s grace — so different from so much sloppy, religious verse!

  I am spending the summer in Mallorca where we have an old farm house. I’m also adrift for lack of good correspondence — no sarcasm, nor many reference books, etc. We are near the town where George Sand entertained Chopin. I hope this finally reaches you and with it send best wishes for the success of the poetry book.

  HOLY SONNET XIV

  Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you

  As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

  That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend

  Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

  I, like an usurped town, to another due,

  Labor to admit You, but Oh, to no end!

  Reason, Your viceroy in me, me should defend,

  But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.

  Yet dearly I love You, and would be loved fain.

  But am betrothed unto Your enemy:

  Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,

  Take me to You, imprison me, for I,

  Except You enthrall me, never shall be free,

  Nor ever chaste, except You ravish me.

  — John Donne

  RICHARD W. RILEY

  THE SECRETARY OF EDUCATION WASHINGTON

  Dear Celene,

  Thank you for your letter of June 15. I am pleased to have an opportunity to help with the project to benefit refugee children by sharing my favorite poem with your class.

  It is a poem entitled “Duty Was Joy,” written by an Indian poet named Tagore:

  I slept and dreamt

  That life was joy —

  I awoke and found

  That life was duty —

  I acted and behold

  Duty was joy.

  Very simply, it is meaningful to me because it ties responsibility and action to happiness in life. I share this view, and find that my duties and responsibilities give me great joy.

  Sincerely,

  ISABELLA ROSSELLINI

  Dear Chloe,

  Here is my latest favorite poem. I cannot tell you, in fact, which is my favorite one. I love too many. But the one I am enclosing in this note to you is my latest love.

  Dustin Hoffman gave it to me. I don’t know who wrote it. He was going to read it at an AIDS benefit. I am worried about sending you a poem which begs people to “Always be drunk,” but note the last verse: “Go get yourselves drunk and don’t stop. With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, with whatever works best.” Please be drunk with virtue or poetry!!!! Forget wine!!! This is meant to be a poem to encourage passion. My recommendation is to have passion — but not wine. On this point I have to disagree with the writer — so be good!

  Have a good summer and thanks.

  From Le Spleen de Paris

  XXXIII

  GET YOURSELF DRUNK

  Always be drunk. That’s all there is to it: nothing else matters. If you don’t want to feel the horrible burden of Time crushing your shoulders and forcing you down, you have to get yourself drunk and not stop.

  Drunk with what? With wine, with poetry, with virtue, with whatever works best. Just get yourself drunk.

  And if you ever wake up on the front steps of some palace, on the green grass of some ditch, in the lonely gloom of your room, and find that inebriation has faded or disappeared, ask
the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, anything that flees, anything that moans, anything that moves, anything that sings, anything that speaks — ask what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, will answer: “Time to get yourselves drunk! If you don’t want to be the martyred slaves of Time, go get yourselves drunk, get yourselves drunk and don’t stop. With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, with whatever works best.”

  — Charles Baudelaire

  GENE SAKS

  Dear Erica,

  Here is a poem which made a deep impression on me and which I’ll always remember. It’s by Siegfried Sassoon, an English poet who fought and was decorated and wounded in the first Great World War, 1914–18. I think of it as the most meaningful anti-war poem I’ve ever read.

  DOES IT MATTER?

  Does it matter? — losing your legs? …

  For people will always be kind,

  And you need not show that you mind

  When others come in after hunting

  To gobble their muffins and eggs.

  Does it matter — losing your sight? …

  There’s such splendid work for the blind;

  And people will always be kind,

  As you sit on the terrace remembering

  And turning your face to the light.

  Do they matter — those dreams from the pit? …

  You can drink and forget and be glad,

  And people won’t say that you’re mad;

  For they’ll know that you’ve fought for your country,

  And no one will worry a bit.

  — Siegfried Sassoon

  Sincerely,

  DIANE SAWYER

  Dear Alexia,

  My favorite poem is “If” by Rudyard Kipling. I know it’s a little old-fashioned, but it certainly helps when you need a poem as a friend — whether you’re “my son” or “my daughter.“