Like millions of people around the world, on New Year's Eve, you may have seen the ball drop in Times Square, the fireworks, parades, and celebrations around the planet. You may have been alone and quietly experienced the passing of our old year. Still, you can say that you "saw" the moment when a significant moment occurred in time.
I refer to this experience as "seeing." It is one of those occasions when we know the "past" is now behind us, and the "future" is before us. Wherever we are, in whatever time zone, our clocks approach 11:59 PM, and we experience something hard to describe. Yes, we may see the "ball drop," we may offer a toast to friends and loved ones, we may call a relative or a friend of long ago. Most often this experience commands all of our senses briefly, and then it is gone.
What did we see? Or did we? I use the word "see" to describe what may be indescribable, but yet something happened that is soulful. That event when our clocks moved from
11:59 PM to 12 AM, describes perhaps the solitary instance when we are one with each other. We may not know that, we may not see it, but we do well to reflect upon what we "saw" or missed seeing. Poets describe moments in time that transcend time, moments of beauty, awe, wonder, meaning, love, and possibly a resolve to live against a backdrop of eternity.
I will give you a small taste of what I mean when I say that poets "see" into the soul of humanity and bring to us their gifts of sight, presented with the evocative vision of poetic imagination. Of the many that could be chosen, I invite your consideration with poetic excerpts from Robert Frost, Lao Tzu, Mary Oliver, W.H.Auden, and Derek Mahon.
STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
Frost was born in San Francisco, moved about in his early years including some time in England before settling down in Shaftsbury, Vermont, on a farm where he grew apples, taught writing in local schools, and wrote poetry.
Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
TAO TE CHING — Chapter One
Lao Tzu (6th century BCE?)
Lao Tzu, which might be translated from the Chinese as "Old Man," lived in the 6th century BCE, according to some research. However, little can be of certain about this profound old man who supposedly worked for Confucius before he retired and retreated to the unknown sacred mountains in China.
The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.
The name that can be named is not the eternal name.
The nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth.
The named is the mother of ten thousand things.
Ever desireless, one can see the mystery.
Ever desiring, one can see the manifestations.
These two spring from the same source but differ in name;
this appears as darkness.
Darkness within darkness.
The gate to all mystery.
YOU ARE STANDING AT THE EDGE OF THE WOODS
Mary Oliver (1953-2019)
Mary Oliver is one of the better know poets in modern literature. She grew up in Ohio, became fascinated with poetry in her later life and wrote of nature and our place in the deep mystery of woods, streams, oceans, and animal life. She spent many of her most productive years living in Provincetown, MA. I have excerpted the beginning and ending of this poem that yet evokes in me the wonder and mystery of Oliver's world.
You are standing at the edge of the woods
at twilight
when something begins
to sing, like a waterfall
...
The thrush
is silent then, or perhaps
has flown away.
The dark grows darker.
The moon,
in its shining white blouse,
rises.
And whatever that wild cry was
it will aways remain a mystery
you have to go home now and live with,
sometimes with the ease of music, and sometimes in silence,
for the rest of your life.
FOR THE TIME BEING
W.H. Auden (1907-1973)
Auden was something of a wanderer. Born in Great Britain, he sought stability in life within the boundaries of New York City, first in Brooklyn Heights, and later, Manhattan. Auden was gifted to make use of his own unsettledness and left us with an evocative commentary on the political, moral, social, and religious dynamics of his time, throwing light on the disturbing time in which we are living. Later in his life, Auden found refuge in the Anglican Church from which he drew the symbols of this long poem that concludes as follows:
He is the Way.
Follow Him through the Land of Unlikeness;
You will see rare beasts, and have unique adventures.
He is the Truth.
Seek Him in the Kingdom of Anxiety;
You will come to a great city that has expected your return for years.
He is the Life.
Love Him in the World of the Flesh;
And at your marriage all its occasions shall dance for joy.
EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT
Derek Mahon (1941-2020)
Mahon was a solitary who wrote against the backdrop of Northern Ireland's brutal conflicts. Determined, he pushed himself to claim a love for poetry that his working class parents did not understand. His "watchful heart" looked inward and outward as he visited many cities around the world and saw features of life that others may not have seen. But many of us have found comfort in the vision of his "watchful heart" that he describes in the following poem.
How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.
We do not all possess that marvelous capacity to write poetry. But we see with our eyes, our hearts, our minds, our imagination, our dreams. What do you see this new year?
I refer to this experience as "seeing." It is one of those occasions when we know the "past" is now behind us, and the "future" is before us. Wherever we are, in whatever time zone, our clocks approach 11:59 PM, and we experience something hard to describe. Yes, we may see the "ball drop," we may offer a toast to friends and loved ones, we may call a relative or a friend of long ago. Most often this experience commands all of our senses briefly, and then it is gone.
What did we see? Or did we? I use the word "see" to describe what may be indescribable, but yet something happened that is soulful. That event when our clocks moved from
11:59 PM to 12 AM, describes perhaps the solitary instance when we are one with each other. We may not know that, we may not see it, but we do well to reflect upon what we "saw" or missed seeing. Poets describe moments in time that transcend time, moments of beauty, awe, wonder, meaning, love, and possibly a resolve to live against a backdrop of eternity.
I will give you a small taste of what I mean when I say that poets "see" into the soul of humanity and bring to us their gifts of sight, presented with the evocative vision of poetic imagination. Of the many that could be chosen, I invite your consideration with poetic excerpts from Robert Frost, Lao Tzu, Mary Oliver, W.H.Auden, and Derek Mahon.
STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
Frost was born in San Francisco, moved about in his early years including some time in England before settling down in Shaftsbury, Vermont, on a farm where he grew apples, taught writing in local schools, and wrote poetry.
Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
TAO TE CHING — Chapter One
Lao Tzu (6th century BCE?)
Lao Tzu, which might be translated from the Chinese as "Old Man," lived in the 6th century BCE, according to some research. However, little can be of certain about this profound old man who supposedly worked for Confucius before he retired and retreated to the unknown sacred mountains in China.
The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.
The name that can be named is not the eternal name.
The nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth.
The named is the mother of ten thousand things.
Ever desireless, one can see the mystery.
Ever desiring, one can see the manifestations.
These two spring from the same source but differ in name;
this appears as darkness.
Darkness within darkness.
The gate to all mystery.
YOU ARE STANDING AT THE EDGE OF THE WOODS
Mary Oliver (1953-2019)
Mary Oliver is one of the better know poets in modern literature. She grew up in Ohio, became fascinated with poetry in her later life and wrote of nature and our place in the deep mystery of woods, streams, oceans, and animal life. She spent many of her most productive years living in Provincetown, MA. I have excerpted the beginning and ending of this poem that yet evokes in me the wonder and mystery of Oliver's world.
You are standing at the edge of the woods
at twilight
when something begins
to sing, like a waterfall
...
The thrush
is silent then, or perhaps
has flown away.
The dark grows darker.
The moon,
in its shining white blouse,
rises.
And whatever that wild cry was
it will aways remain a mystery
you have to go home now and live with,
sometimes with the ease of music, and sometimes in silence,
for the rest of your life.
FOR THE TIME BEING
W.H. Auden (1907-1973)
Auden was something of a wanderer. Born in Great Britain, he sought stability in life within the boundaries of New York City, first in Brooklyn Heights, and later, Manhattan. Auden was gifted to make use of his own unsettledness and left us with an evocative commentary on the political, moral, social, and religious dynamics of his time, throwing light on the disturbing time in which we are living. Later in his life, Auden found refuge in the Anglican Church from which he drew the symbols of this long poem that concludes as follows:
He is the Way.
Follow Him through the Land of Unlikeness;
You will see rare beasts, and have unique adventures.
He is the Truth.
Seek Him in the Kingdom of Anxiety;
You will come to a great city that has expected your return for years.
He is the Life.
Love Him in the World of the Flesh;
And at your marriage all its occasions shall dance for joy.
EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT
Derek Mahon (1941-2020)
Mahon was a solitary who wrote against the backdrop of Northern Ireland's brutal conflicts. Determined, he pushed himself to claim a love for poetry that his working class parents did not understand. His "watchful heart" looked inward and outward as he visited many cities around the world and saw features of life that others may not have seen. But many of us have found comfort in the vision of his "watchful heart" that he describes in the following poem.
How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.
We do not all possess that marvelous capacity to write poetry. But we see with our eyes, our hearts, our minds, our imagination, our dreams. What do you see this new year?
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