Poetry Sunday

Day 279 of 365

Today is the Super Bowl. I grew up in a culture that worshipped football (Texas), but I am not even sure who is in the Super Bowl this year. I think it is Philadelphia because I have a Facebook friend who lives in Philadelphia, and she has been very excited.

I do know it is also Poetry Sunday. I first learned about this about five years ago, and it’s always on Super Bowl Sunday. You are supposed to share poetry on social media. It’s surprising, I know, but Poetry Sunday hasn’t taken off the way Super Bowl Sunday has, but I feel like any excuse to celebrate poetry is a good one. Since I am married to a farmer/poet, I wanted to share one of my favorite poems from the journal.

You can also explore so many beautiful and interesting poems on the Poetry page of the journal. One of the things that makes me so proud of Farmer-ish is that there are not many places that will publish poems about chickens and wood boxes, but these things are very important.

I hope you enjoy. Happy Poetry Sunday!

A Deliberate Life
by James Sands

I will take this path, then,
bare, leading to not quite austere,
not quite bereft, not quite alone

I will take what coin I have to spend,
my allotment of time as human,
beyond the artifice of men

And I will be mine own Thoreau,
take pleasure in my own garden,
the sound of stone on my own hoe

I will watch, and I will ponder
as seasons begin and seasons end,
and then again and again

I will wonder how trees
feel about wind, if it depends
on the measure of storm

And I will cleave to the earth
where I will grow—like all
to return when I end

One thought on “Poetry Sunday

  1. This is really great! I have a reader pick up your blog, but it’s not in a way to conveniently comment so those come a little late. I’m not a sports fan and substituting poetry is such a great way to make it special. Here’s a “found poem” rearranged from Thoreau’s journal entry on 1/21/1853.

    _The Hounds of Silence_

    Silence alone
    is worthy to be heard,
    of various depth and
    fertility like soil.

    Drawing nearer
    to the woods I listen
    to hear the hounds
    of silence baying the moon.

    The silence rings,
    thrills me.

    A night in which the silence
    is audible
    I hear
    the unspeakable.


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