“Last year is over, they seem to say,” wrote Philip Larkin in his poem “The Trees.” “Let’s start anew, anew, anew.”
As we try to make sense of things in the middle of winter (when the world is in such turmoil, both literally and figuratively), the distilled nature of poetry creates a kind of alchemy. You can demonstrate it. I have been 'prescribing' poetry at festivals, conferences, hospitals and schools since 2011, from the back of the 'Emergency Poet' ambulance and since then 'prescribing' poetry through the ambulance. poetry pharmacy book store. Here, we've put together a first aid cabinet to lift your mood and help you face this January.
If you're someone who's staring into the new year with mild trepidation, or who needs some reinforcement against the season's inevitable existential angst, these poems gently remind you that getting started is all about It might remind you. Poetry doesn't promise miracles, but it can help you reach a little deeper.
This first beautiful poem by Rhiannon Hooson is a prescription for a time when, in William Wordsworth's words, “the world has had too much influence on us.”
Overwintering by Rhiannon Hooson
At the first frost, when the cold made sugar
Cows blooming slowly
We steamed down the hillside and into the valley.
Geese woke us up at night. larch has changed
Like an old man, let go and face the wind.
A pipe burst inside the house and the clock was broken.
The clicking stopped and water started falling down the chimney.
The elm at the corner of the railroad track fell down.
The last leaf had a black branch attached to it.
Up to the stars. In the kitchen,
My mother baked bread with saffron –
A round sun is wintering on the table.
Fuson's poems remind us to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. It is not only the bright light at the end of the poem, but also the beauty of the desolate space where “the elm at the corner of the path had shed its last leaves.”
“New Every Morning” by Susan Coolidge
Every morning is a new beginning,
Hear the refrain of my soul's joy.
And despite the old sadness,
And the elders sinned;
Expected troubles
And it can cause pain,
Keep that day in mind and start again.
I love this little poem by Susan Coolidge (pseudonym of Sarah Chauncey Woolsey). Although she is the author of the children's literature classic “What Katy Did,” she is not well known as an accomplished poet. It's short, easy to remember, and can be carried around like a pick-me-up on a dark winter morning. This is a prescription for putting one foot in front of the other. Read this poem while drinking strong coffee first thing in the morning.
“Welcome” by Imtiaz Dharkar
You were running on broken glass,
child chased by nightmares
At last, the dilapidated streets
You came to this door. here
The room is made of hope, the shelves are full
Many voices calling you.
You can stop running now, pull me
Pull out a chair and sit down. for you they are lying
A feast table where you can enjoy the taste of the place
Honey from the beehive, in your dream
Words like warm bread and spices.
This is a place where people come alive.
Telling their stories in ink and blood
A wild night, a mottled afternoon,
Talk about fallen tyrants, droughts and floods
Under the desert stars and the arctic moon.
They weave legends and evoke myths
in your native language and other languages
Something that gives an accent to the dance with death,
The love of their lives, the songs they sing.
you were welcomed
A book with the scent of old wood,
I'm standing here with a broken spine,
Open your thoughts to freedom
And every time you turn the page, your breath
Accelerate with what you always knew
Like a faith remembered in your blood.
Opening a book opens your heart.
This poem hints at the darkest hardships: running through desolate streets, tyrants and floods. But if you have a “room made of hope,” your journey will ultimately be filled with hope. It teaches us that strength and determination can be found within the pages of books, in stories of challenges overcome and in our common humanity. See this poem as an antidote to the temptation of endlessly scrolling through Instagram reels, and as a powerful and effective stimulant to soothe compassion and self-absorption.
“The Thaw” by Edward Thomas
On the ground covered in freckles from half-melted snow
The rook in the nest chirped.
And what I saw from the top of the elm was as delicate as a flower of grass,
What we couldn't see below was the winter pass.
This short but powerful treatment by World War I poet Edward Thomas is an antidote to the dark days of January and the darkness of 4:30 p.m. Although we may not be able to see it ourselves, even though winter is here when the rooks are brooding in the cold (they know something is going on), this time of year has passed. I will go. I also love this poem. It is because of its brevity and the exquisite skill of the poet. Repeated open vowels in “thaw,” “squeal,” “grass,” and “pass.” When you read it out loud, you can't help but feel the sensation of an exhaled breath or a sigh, which in itself feels good.
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“A Rainy Day” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is cold, dark, and gloomy.
Even if it rains or the wind blows, you won't get tired.
The vines still cling to the rotting walls,
But every time a gust of wind blows, dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and gloomy.
My life is cold, dark and boring.
Even if it rains or the wind blows, you won't get tired.
My thoughts still cling to the rotten past,
However, the young people's hopes were deeply destroyed in the explosion.
And the days are dark and gloomy.
Be still, sad heart! And stop repeating.
The sun is still shining behind the clouds.
Your destiny is the common destiny of all,
Rain must fall in each life,
There are bound to be some dark and depressing days.
With the proclamation, “There must be rain in each life,” this poem has meaning in combating the dreary weather and the inevitable hard times in life: times of sadness, existential angst, and struggle. It reminds me that there is no. It can be comforting to know that you are not alone in feeling this way and that others have felt this way before. Longfellow's advice is that beyond these feelings there is hope. I also love this poem. Because it reminds us that there is joy in enjoying the melancholy of boring days and feeling a little sorry for ourselves.
“The Ground” by Caroline Bird
You land on a ridge 6 feet below the cliff
And believe me I fell from fear
You think you made it to the top and survived.
This is the ground.
Until I noticed a lark passing by at eye level.
drop cufflinks and fall
In the open palm of another 50-foot ridge,
I was deeply hurt, my clothes were torn,
You lost your shoe and you think,
This is the ground,
Now you can bake lasagna
Until the kite gets tangled in my hair,
Your feet hit the plummeting carpet
now you are hanging the necklace
From branch thinking
This is the ground,
Let's buy a puppy
When you sit on the warabi chair,
When you fall into your chair like a severed flower head
Face planting – yes! On the ground! – in the tree,
The wind flares up with force, and the whip…
Oops and oops as my own screams hit me.
Oops, straddled the lamppost, pole, hut, every time.
You survived, you fell, you landed, you fell through,
No one knows how far you've traveled
Gradually loosen this thing and lower it –
A giant with a featureless face tightens his fists.
Thud. at last
I can put that shelf on. Make that baby.
You lie, look up and heal your bones
Experience the highlands from afar
First time, cold, hard, real, and vice versa
of air. You tremble like a prodigal astronaut.
You would think you could build a house on this,
While staggering.
The dizzying nature of this wonderful poem will rush through you like a breath of fresh air. I love this poem because it can be interpreted in two ways. That conclusion seems to say that it is foolish to expect arrival and certainty, but to me it is humorous and cynically accepted, with hopes of a safe landing next. A series of portraits of a life lived to the fullest. Bird images are fun. “A lark passes by at eye level” and “Now I can bake lasagna” tell us that we need to be optimistic and get back on our feet and build a home. Keep staggering!
This is by Kathryn Bevis
The new leaves are lit,
grow into a green world
In the dark forest. little white man
The flow rises to the sound of boots.
Nothing is more valuable than this day.
A pair of yellow wagtails flies low,
Crossing the rapids with a golden belly.
their bodies convert water
Sunlight, sunlight and water.
Nothing is more valuable than this day.
Here the wind plays with the leaves
Changes in empty pockets.
A crow pigeon is calling to us in the sky.
Wild and true, who are you, who are you?
Nothing is more valuable than this day.
My final prescription comes from Kathryn Beavis, a wonderful poet and friend of mine who knew she was dying when she wrote this poem. I don't know of a more inspiring piece of work that encourages living in the moment, evokes joy, and, like hers, finds beauty in the everyday.
