Poetry

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save. 

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrow,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out 

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes, 

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

feeling is dangerous because

it requires us to dwell in anguish,

rather than anesthetize it

(as if it never happened).

so many fear joy because they fear losing it.

they hate us because we live here - in this precarious joy - and we have found preciousness, still.

it is far easier to desensitize ourselves to the world.

but what about the romance of living?

the tundra of grief, of striving, of becoming like

every breath is  an invitation to another way of being?

what about the dignity of being?

i won't settle for anything less.

i would rather weep than pretend.

i would rather be hated than be digestible.

i would rather be mirthful than meander around like

happiness is some rare ray of light piercing through y window.

it's not that we are extra,

it's that we are feeling

and you are not

(or rather, you refuse). 

 ~https://www.alokvmenon.com/blog/category/Poetry

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful. 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Together we will create brave space.

Because there is no such thing as a “safe space” —

We exist in the real world.

We all carry scars and we have all caused wounds.

In this space

We seek to turn down the volume of the outside world,

We amplify voices that fight to be heard elsewhere,

We call each other to more truth and love.

We have the right to start somewhere and continue to grow.

We have the responsibility to examine what we think we know.

We will not be perfect.

This space will not be perfect.

It will not always be what we wish it to be.

But

It will be our brave space together,

and

We will work on it side by side.

Do not ask your children

to strive for extraordinary lives.

Such striving may seem admirable,

but it is the way of foolishness.



Help them instead to find the wonder

and the marvel of an ordinary life.

Show them the joy of tasting

tomatoes, apples and pears.

Show them how to cry

when pets and people die.

Show them the infinite pleasure

in the touch of a hand.

And make the ordinary come alive for them.



The extraordinary will take care of itself.

You are holding up a ceiling 

with both arms. 

It is very heavy, 

but you must hold it up, or else 

it will fall down on you. Your arms 

are tired, terribly tired, 

and, as the day goes on, it feels 

as if either your arms or the ceiling 

will soon collapse. 

But then, 

unexpectedly,

 something wonderful happens: 

Someone, 

a man or a woman, 

walks into the room 

and holds their arms up 

to the ceiling beside you. 

So you finally get 

to take down your arms. 

You feel the relief of respite, 

the blood flowing back 

to your fingers and arms. 

And when your partner's arms tire, 

you hold up your own 

to relieve him again. 

And it can go on like this 

for many years 

without the house falling.