It’s been awhile since I posted anything for Poetry Friday and I have missed our cozy little community greatly. I am glad that both Iphigene and Fats were kind enough to fill in for me. As we were traveling over the past month, being back here in Singapore is also a ‘homecoming.’ While we did enjoy our travels, there is nothing quite like lying down in your own bed and having homecooked meals and doing the mundane, the routine, the delicious commonplace that are sorely missed. Thus, my poetry offering today has this theme of being home. Poetry Friday is hosted this week by one of my favorite teacher-bloggers of all time, Tara from A Teaching Life. Visit her amazing blog to see the round-up post.
Journey Home by Rabindranath Tagore
The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.
I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet.
It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.
The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.
My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said `Here art thou!’
The question and the cry `Oh, where?’ melt into tears of a thousand streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance `I am!’
A Letter from Home by Mary Oliver
I discovered Mary Oliver’s poetry through the fabulous Jama Rattigan from Jama’s Alphabet Soup and I have fallen in love with Oliver’s writing. Here is one of her poems that hit quite close to ‘home.’ Very poignant in its cryptic codes and allusions.
She sends me news of blue jays, frost,
Of stars and now the harvest moon
That rides above the stricken hills.
Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,
And lists what is already lost.
Here where my life seems hard and slow,
I read of glowing melons piled
Beside the door, and baskets filled
With fennel, rosemary and dill,
While all she could not gather in
Or hid in leaves, grow black and falls.
Here where my life seems hard and strange,
I read her wild excitement when
Stars climb, frost comes, and blue jays sing.
The broken year will make no change
Upon her wise and whirling heart; –
She knows how people always plan
To live their lives, and never do.
She will not tell me if she cries.
I touch the crosses by her name;
I fold the pages as I rise,
And tip the envelope, from which
Drift scraps of borage, woodbine, rue.