First we cry.
Then the tears turn to stone.
Then we remember just one thing:
The death of a son.

And nobody says a thing.
Or talks about the rain and how's it going.
And another thing and another thing.
And the ear is in any case past hearing.

But we keep still.
And rise from the chair. And sit. And rise. Again.
And know just one thing:
He will not come again.

§

Master of nonsenses in the heart
And deeds in action,
Father of tortures for the hungry body
Feed me life
                         and then I'll know
There's a great sun in your heaven
And much of its gold lights upon me.
Here I'll stretch out my hand to you—
Make a donation.

§

I drew myself the kingdom of heaven
In green—
In memory of all my dead.

And they hear me calling their names
And answer me with a grin.
It's sad without them in the rooms
Where they left their voices echoing.

I give them life—
All of my dead.
And they live it again
And for all time.

But it is sad without them in those rooms.

§

Without enfolding words.
In the rough. Like a hard stone. Bare.
Things being what they are.
The sun plays at rise and set,
Rise and disappear.
But such and such—not otherwise—
Are things.
And the body hurts itself the hurt
Of the entire world.
Let rain fall. Like a rainy autumn
That's awkward as a beast.
And then to stand before the face of God:
This is not your face. Not this.

§

A deep night that knows all,
Sees—hears all—
Maybe prayer is good
On this night.
You say it
But not with your mouth open.
Nor with lips that sing.
You keep it very silent
In the lonely form.
from the journalIMAGE
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Full-length photograph of U.S. poet laueate, Joy Harjo, in the Library of congress
Joy Harjo's Vision as Poet Laureate

"I think the appointment is certainly at a crucial time in this country, in the world, especially dealing with shifting political realities everywhere. At the center of it, which is sometimes spoken and often not spoken, is our global community is in a dire environmental moment in our collective history."

via THE WASHINGTON POST
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Cover of Stanley Plumly's book, Against Sunset
What Sparks Poetry:
Shara Lessley on Stanley Plumly's "Dutch Elm"

"As a poet, Plumly might be described as an elegist deeply attuned to the natural world. Formally varied, his work is both tender and apprehensive. Often drawing on memory, it attends to matters of isolation, strange beauty, resilience, and loss. 'Dutch Elm,' the opening poem in Plumly’s 2017 collection, Against Sunset, operates very much within this mode. It is in many ways a procession of grief, a sonnet haunted by longing."
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