Finalist & Spider

This afternoon I looked in my mailbox, and lo and behold, a letter - recognizing me as a finalist in a poetry contest I had entered!  I won the award last year, and so am not at all upset to give someone else a spot in the limelight this year. 
It is always nice to have your hard work validated, and this is especially true in an art as quiet as poetry.  In the next few days I will try to get around to posting the poem that I entered.
The poem below is one (again, not my own,) that I found some time ago, and just rediscovered tonight.  It got me thinking, and I decided to post it here for you to see too.  Enjoy, apply, share!

The spider at my window
will spin her web anew
in just the same location
in just a day or two

if I should swing a towel
or thrust up with a broom
to render sweeping judgment
on her subtle loom.

This is our little pattern,
our two-step for the fates:
again I snip, demolish,
again she spins, creates.

The spider never hurt me.
She doesn’t snitch my food
since I don’t like mosquitoes—
in fact, she’d do me good

if I would just ignore her,
adore her, for the whiz
of opalescent angle
and tapestry she is.

I’ve felt the broom, and bristled;
I know how swipes can smart;
so I should be the last man
to say what isn’t art.

Michael Ferris

Mortality

Here is another poem quoted in the broadcast I mentioned in my last post.  The first stanza was all they used, but I felt the whole thing was worth sharing.

This poem is said to have been the favorite of President Abraham Lincoln, one of the greatest leaders of our country, and a personal hero of mine. 

He is said to have once remarked, "I would give all I am worth, and go in debt, to be able to write so fine a piece as I think that is."  Do not all poets feel so, when faced with such elegance?  Do we not all long to be given the power to convey that which lies in the depths of our hearts?  I know I do.

 

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,

Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around, and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high

Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.

 

The infant a mother attended and loved;

The mother that infant's affection who proved;

The husband that mother and infant who blessed,--

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those who loved her and praised

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;

The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

 

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;

The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

 

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed

That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

 

For we are the same our fathers have been;

We see the same sights our fathers have seen;

We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,

And run the same course our fathers have run.

 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;

To the life we are clinging they also would cling;

But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

 

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;

The scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;

They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

 

They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

 

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,

Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

 

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,--

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

William Knox

About Crows

This weekend I am doing something that I look forward to every six months, and listening to the wisest men and women I know, teaching me about how to live a better, happier life. 

They often quote poetry in these broadcasts.  As a poet, I watch for and treasure it when they do.  This morning one of them quoted this poem, and I thought I would include it here for your benefit. 

(By the way, if you wish to watch this broadcast yourself, it can be found at 

http://lds.org/general-conference?lang=eng )

The old crow is getting slow;
the young crow is not.
Of what the young crow does not know,
the old crow knows a lot.

At knowing things, the old crow is still
the young crow’s master.
What does the old crow not know?
How to go faster.

The young crow flies above, below, and rings
around the slow old crow.
What does the fast young crow not know?
WHERE TO GO.

John Ciardi